Captive
by Miss Snuffles
Summary: Ginny is captured by Death Eaters, and becomes a part of Voldemort's quest for immortality.
1. Default Chapter

CAPTIVE by Miss Snuffles  
  
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I am not J.K. Rowling, nor do I own any part of the WB, Scholastic, or Bloomsbury. If I did, do you think I would be writing fan fiction? Okay, I probably would, on an island in the sun with the highest speed Internet access available, and have a heard of 100 beautiful horses. As such, I am just a lowly student who drives a 1990 car and was just blessed with wireless. Whoohoo!  
  
A/N: As always, thanks to Elanor Gamgee, my beta, who made sure I didn't sound like a sappy romance novel. And to Ginny, who is always my muse.  
  
Chapter One  
  
"Kidnapped"  
  
"Ennervate."  
  
Darkness.  
  
I-  
  
Cold. Cold stone walls.  
  
I don't-  
  
Drip. The faint drip of water. Not close, but not far. It was clammy. Cold, damp, clammy.  
  
I don't feel-  
  
Ache. Pain. She hurt. It was dark, cold stone walls, the sound of dripping water. Goosebumps on her skin. The hard stone floor beneath her, the chill of it seeping into her aching bones.  
  
I don't feel that-  
  
Dark, cold, wet, hurt. So familiar. The heaviness. The chill. Something moved. A rat? No, too big to be a rat. How could something move when it was so cold? She had to see, had to know, but it hurt. It hurt in this cold, wet place.  
  
I don't feel that way-  
  
"Tom!"  
  
An icy jolt, a cold that she had only felt once, six years ago, jerked through her body. Her eyes flew open. She twisted excruciatingly around, her fearful eyes fastening on the figure moving through the shadows. Images flashed before her in a swirling myriad.  
  
Harry-hunched witch-starry night-Hagrid's cabin-Stupefy!-blackness-  
  
"Tom-" she whispered, fighting the rush of fear with practiced reasoning. She was dreaming. She'd had this dream before. Dark, cold chamber. Cloaked figure in the black shadows. She could fight these dreams now, fight them and awake with a serene acceptance. At breakfast she would quietly tell Harry of her victory, and he would smile warmly as he always did. He never tired of it.  
  
Harry.  
  
I don't feel that way about you.  
  
Green eyes, fierce, dark. The hunched-back witch. The starry night sky, the silver grass. Hagrid's Cabin. The shout. The blackness.  
  
It wasn't a dream.  
  
Ginny sucked in a gasping breath, her stomach and heart turning to ice as she stared at the moving, hunched figure skulking in the blackness just beyond. She wasn't dreaming. She was in a chamber. She'd been Stunned. She wasn't in the Chamber of Secrets, and that wasn't Tom Riddle lurking, ready to take her soul.  
  
"Ah-" It was a high cough of uncertainty. Ginny stared, her heart caught between erratically pounding in her chest and simply stopping. The figure moved closer, skittishly, as if fearing an attack. In the inky glum, she could discern a lumpy sort of man in ill-fitting, tattered robes. As he shuffled towards her, a dim, weak yellow light seeped through the blackness, and glinted off his hand.  
  
It was silver. Even in the poor light, it emanated a malevolent luster that caused Ginny to shrink back from the otherwise unthreatening man.  
  
"Scabbers." Ginny shuddered, staring up at the bald, diminished man staring down at her, a look of perpetual panic and fear pressed into his pale face. She couldn't hide her contempt, anger, and revulsion. She'd never seen Peter Pettigrew before.  
  
Pettigrew said nothing, but shuffled and hoisted a small, dingy bucket closer to Ginny. She tried to shrink away, pressing against the cold, damp stone wall, and he hesitated, his dark, beady eyes shining wetly in the pale murky light.  
  
"Y-you m-must-you must d-dr-drink," he said in a tremulous, frightened voice that echoed strangely in the chill. He dipped a small cup into the bucket, making tiny, sloshing noises that seemed to converse with the steady, distant drip of water. Trembling, Pettigrew offered the cup to Ginny.  
  
Nothing registered, nothing but the icy, painful presence of the wall at her back, the ache in her bones, and the overwhelming fear taking hold. She was kidnapped, captured by Death Eaters. Here was Ron's pet rat, Scabbers, the one who had slept on her pillow when Ron had unconsciously kicked him off the bed, the one who had betrayed Harry's parents, framed Sirius Black, and had taken Harry's blood to resurrect Voldemort.  
  
"Drink, please," said Pettigrew in his tiny, pleading voice. "It will help, Ginny-"  
  
"Don't call me that!" she shrieked.  
  
Pettigrew flinched, and Ginny sucked in another deep breath. She was trembling, shaking uncontrollably, and it wasn't from the cold penetrating her body.  
  
"You-you rat-" she hissed, gasping with each syllable. "How-how?-"  
  
"I-" Pettigrew began, but then he closed his thin mouth and shook his head. Something passed across his rat-like face, but he ducked his head into the darkness. "You must drink . . . to keep your strength up," he said softly, sympathetically. Without meeting her furious, wild gaze, he rested the cup on the floor beside her and withdrew into the darkness. She heard a door open and close with a quiet but heavy groan, and then the solid, final clamp of an iron lock. The faintest sound of a spell floated back through the glum.  
  
Silence pressed in.  
  
Then Ginny's breath came in short, loud gasps that pounced off the stone. Panic and fear gripped her, seeming to shut out the weak, stained light hovering somewhere behind all the blackness. The desperate need to stay calm and think rationally slipped away the moment she tried to assert herself. The ache in her bones from being Stunned, the swirling images of her last memories, and the piercing cold wrapped around her like a serpent ready to strike. Serpents . . . Tom Riddle . . .Harry . . .  
  
Her frantic gasps elevated to racking sobs. The cup of water was knocked over, and cold water splashed onto her leg. It ran warmly and soothingly against her freezing thigh, trickling like a small, thin stream down her leg. No, not a stream. A snake. It slithered against her gooseflesh skin, deceptively soothing.  
  
Ginny let out a cry and rolled away, scraping her cheek against the rough stone. Physical, stinging pain sliced through the overwhelming panic that had seized her. She sobbed and felt the welcome of warm tears falling down her cheeks, trailing slowly but steadily down her chin and neck.  
  
My dressing gown, she thought suddenly. My dressing gown is gone.  
  
That was why it was so cold. Her nightgown was thin cotton. Her arms were bare. Her winter gown had shredded by a new kitten, and she'd had no choice but to wear her summer gown.  
  
Shivering, she hugged herself, curling up into a small ball against the wall. The hysteria was fading. She wasn't sobbing or convulsing.  
  
"Oh, Harry," she whispered into the murky chamber. She squeezed her eyes shut to ward off a deep agony that was swimming to the surface. Silent tears poured freely down her cheeks, pooling under her head onto the stone floor. Her grazed cheek burned, but she didn't care. All she could see, feel, were those burning green eyes, the faint brush of his breath as he muttered with such quiet ferocity and determination what she had always believed true, but dared hope not.  
  
How long had it been? Hours? Days? The memory was her last and felt excruciatingly fresh. The cold darkness seemed to freeze the moment, welcome it, and torture her with it.  
  
*  
  
It wasn't late, but it felt late. The common room seemed to empty so much more quickly than before. Ginny sighed as she gazed around the at the squashy chairs and sofas, the blazing fireplace, and the few students doing homework, sitting by the fire reading, or talking in somber, quiet tones. She thought wistfully of the days when Fred and George had filled the circular Gryffindor Tower with loud bangs and raucous laughter. Or when three games of Exploding Snap would erupt simultaneously and fill the room with smoke. Or all-night celebrations when Gryffindor steamrollered another House in Quidditch-  
  
Another sigh echoed Ginny's, and she turned away from the nearly empty, cheerless common room and gazed at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Ron had fallen asleep with his head buried in the crook of his arm, the other arm stretched across his enormous essay, hand still clenched around his quill dipped in the almost empty ink bottle. Hermione was blinking blearily at her own Ancient Runes project, completely unaware of an unconscious Ron.  
  
Only Harry seemed to be awake, but his homework was the least completed. Ginny had been aware of his restlessness all night, but had made no comment except for an understanding, small smile every now and then. Instead of smiling, however reluctantly, back as he usually did, he only frowned and turned his troubled gaze elsewhere. He seemed particularly moody and worried tonight, the furrow of his brow deeper than usual. Yet Ginny could detect what exactly it was now. She'd grown accustomed to his moods, and could usually decipher his thoughts almost before he could. Not that he was aware of this.  
  
She could never confess to Harry how much she'd studied him over the years.  
  
Yet she had a feeling, and it gnawed away at her all night. All day.  
  
Even as Harry ducked his head and pretended to look up a reference in his History of Magic text, Ginny felt her stomach twist nauseatingly. Her quill started to tremble again, causing her neat, careful penmanship to scraggle. She tried to breathe normally and keep her blood from racing to her head, but it was difficult. Subconsciously, her fingertips touched her lips, where she'd felt his almost twenty-four hours ago.  
  
Harry set down his quill. "Ginny," he said quietly, a strained gravelly tone.  
  
She jerked, her heart hammering against her chest. He was looking at her, and then away. He had been doing that all day, but it wasn't giving her thrills as it had before when he had grown nervous around her. A deep sense of foreboding wrapped around her thundering heart as he raked a hand through his jet black hair.  
  
"I-I have to talk to you." Harry spoke quietly, so quietly that Ginny wouldn't have heard him if not for the decisive, determined shortness of his words.  
  
She nodded, unable to speak as Harry stood up and edged towards one of the empty corners of the common room. No one noticed as Ginny shakily rose from her chair, not even Hermione, who was muttering incoherently to herself. Somehow she reached Harry.  
  
"Ginny." He was refusing to completely meet her gaze, and seemed to be collecting himself. Ginny felt as if someone had opened a window to let in the chilly first of November air.  
  
"Harry," she said before she realized she'd opened her mouth. "Tell me what's wrong." She instinctively reached for his hands, which she'd held and squeezed before, but he moved them nervously out of her reach. "Harry?"  
  
He finally met her gaze, and she gasped inaudibly. Those brilliant green eyes that always managed to betray Harry's carefully guarded expressions burned fiercely with something Ginny had never witnessed before. She shrank back, almost with fear, but quickly collected herself. This was Harry. He'd been her friend for three years now. And he'd kissed her last night.  
  
"Ginny," he said quietly, calculatingly steady. "I need to talk to you about . . . about last night." There. Something else flicked behind those broiling depths. His voice hitched slightly.  
  
Ginny felt her chest constrict, but her heart seemed to fight it. Harry didn't move his gaze, but continued to stare down at her determinedly.  
  
"It was a mistake."  
  
Mistake?  
  
"I didn't mean-I-honestly-it was an accident. I don't know what came over me."  
  
What?  
  
Ginny heard the words perfectly, but they weren't registering. It was as if her ears had detached themselves from her brain. She stared disbelievingly at Harry, yet deep down, amongst the rising emotion, she understood perfectly. Had always understood, had always known.  
  
"Ginny," Harry said, a desperate rasp coming into his intensely low voice. "I'm really sorry-I just-I don't-It was a mistake. I must of have too much butterbeer or something. Please, let's-can we just forget it ever happened?"  
  
"You . . . kissed me . . ." she heard herself say faintly.  
  
"I . . . I know."  
  
"But you didn't mean it."  
  
"I-yes."  
  
A distant roaring . . . Ginny felt dizzy and lightheaded. Harry seemed to sway sickeningly before her, as if on a tossing sea. He was gazing at her desperately, fearfully. Guilt was written plainly across his pale but flushed face. Guilt for having kissed her last night. For brushing his lips at the corner of her mouth, hesitating, and then slowly meeting her own perfectly still lips . . .  
  
"Right," she choked. "Right. An accident."  
  
"Yes," said Harry slowly, deliberately, as if analyzing the small word. "An accident. Please, let's forget about it."  
  
"You don't . . .you don't . . ." She couldn't make herself say it. Didn't want to see it in his beautiful eyes, or watch his mouth, the mouth she'd finally felt against hers, move carefully to form the words.  
  
"No." It was raspy, husky, incredibly low and reverberating through her core. "No, Ginny, I don't . . . I don't feel that way about . . . about you."  
  
"I don't believe you," she almost sobbed. She didn't think he heard her, but he breathed in sharply, causing her to look up at him. He could never lie to her face, never look her directly in the eye and lie. "Look at me, Harry," she said quietly, determinedly, matching his own gaze. "Look at me and say it."  
  
Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Ginny felt triumph and relief rush through her, making her knees shake, but then that ferocity overwhelmed the violent swirl of indeterminable emotions in his gaze, and she felt an icy cold hand clamp over her heart.  
  
"Ginny." He was looking directly into her eyes, into her soul. Leaving no doubt. "I don't feel that way about you. You are my friend."  
  
It was final. Ginny had spent six years of her life knowing Harry Potter would never love her, but there had been hope. In his gazes before he realized she had noticed. She must have imagined it. Somehow, she was able to rectify herself before complete and utter collapse.  
  
"I see."  
  
"I'm sorry, Ginny." And he sounded sorry. Indescribably sorry.  
  
"I know." So he knew how she felt, knew how deeply she loved him. And yet he couldn't love her back. Not more than as a friend.  
  
"Are you-are you all right?" He couldn't hide his concern or guilt. She could almost feel his impulse to embrace her, comfort her, but could not because he'd just inflicted the deepest, cruelest injury upon her. And it was hurting him. "Ginny?"  
  
"Please, Harry," she somehow managed to choke out. "I just need to be alone."  
  
He nodded wordlessly. She sensed him nodding, watched the faintest twitch of his robes as he shifted. Then he moved away, back towards the table. She watched his retreating back. Hermione was asleep now, too, her mass of wild curls spreading all over the table. It seemed as if fiery ribbons had been woven into the mass, and Ginny realized with detached amusement that Ron's head had been devoured by his girlfriend's curls.  
  
Harry slowly, mechanically gathered his books. He turned towards the spiraling staircase, but caught Ginny's gaze. From across the common room she could read the intense, fiery pain in his gaze, but then an emotionless mask fell over him, and he turned abruptly.  
  
She watched him disappear up the stairs.  
  
With a sharp gasp, she whirled around and went out the portrait hole.  
  
* 


	2. Missing

Disclaimer: The usual disclaimer. I don't own anything, blah blah, thanks, JKR, for being cool.  
  
A/N: Thanks to Elanor for rereading this chapter, being my beta, and putting smiley faces at the end! ( Also, I'll try to move this story along as much as possible, since I only have another week left of school! Hooray!  
Chapter Two  
  
"Missing"  
  
Dull afternoon sunshine stretched half-heartedly through the windows of the seventh year boys' dormitory. It was deathly quiet except for the fretful, rhythmic tread of pacing feet as Harry Potter crossed the circular room from one window to the next, pausing only to stare out at the bleak Hogwarts grounds before abruptly spinning to retrace his steps. He wore his black cloak despite the heat from the crackling fire, his wand clenched readily in his hand.  
  
Hermione Granger followed her friend's progression with worried brown eyes from her perch on Ron Weasley's bed. She battled with the urge to disarm and Body Bind Harry, and perhaps would have, if not for the fact her hands and arms were locked with Ron's. It was painful having her left hand squeezed so fiercely and the other arm crushed against his side. With her head resting against his shoulder, she could feel the tense, strained limbs and muscles of her boyfriend against her own trembling side. She knew he was pretending to comfort her while disguising the rage and worry broiling inside.  
  
"Harry, please," she pleaded, not for the first time, as Harry turned from the far window and began his brisk journey back. "Sit down. You're making me nervous."  
  
Nervous hardly described it. Harry barely glanced at her, but sat down across from her on his own bed, only to jump back up a second later and pace furiously again.  
  
Hermione sighed and clenched her teeth. She felt Ron shift almost imperceptibly against her, his grip around her tightening still. He took a deep, quietly shuddering breath and said in a choked whisper, "It's just like second year again."  
  
Hermione lifted her head slightly, but quickly decided not to look at him. It was best just to let Ron speak. She nestled back against him, breathing in the faint smell of soap and breakfast.  
  
"I didn't believe it, yet we'd all accepted it," Ron continued, his voice resounding and vibrating against her ear, yet quiet as a whisper. He sounded so distant, and a chill crept over Hermione. "Everyone did. Gryffindor, McGonagall, Percy, the twins-me. And she'd been there, at breakfast, and she tried to tell us! How could she be . . .?"  
  
"Oh, Ron, don't say it!" Hermione pleaded, raising her head off his broad shoulder. She peered at him desperately, but he wouldn't meet her gaze. His eyes were blank, his skin so pale that every single freckle showed almost black. "Please, don't say it!"  
  
Ron's eyes slowly shifted to meet her wet gaze, but then he stared down at their clenched hands. "If only we could do something!" he said fiercely, color and vibrancy returning to his countenance. "Harry and I went after her-"  
  
"Dumbledore specifically said-"  
  
"Oh, bugger Dumbledore!" Harry had stopped his pacing and was standing at Ron's bedpost, a frightening sight with his deathly pale complexion and burning eyes. His hair was completely in disarray and his fists were clenched with barely suppressed rage. Yet there was something else lurking there, a heaviness, a guilt . . .  
  
"Harry," she said, trying to sound calm although she was trembling inside. "You know everyone is doing the best they can! When we know where she is or what's happened-"  
  
Harry swore softly, harshly, and whirled around again. Hermione jumped to her feet, anticipating his flight out of the dormitory, but he merely returned to covering the floor with his angry pacing. She let out a breath of relief and turned back to Ron. What was worse? Harry's insuppressible rage or Ron's utter defeat?  
  
As she took Ron's right hand in hers and kissed the top of his forehead, she decided a furious Ron was preferable to the grimness settling over him. When she drew her lips away, he tilted his chin up, his eyes dark and wet. She wanted desperately to smile for him, but knew she would burst into tears. With steady hands she brushed her fingers through his fiery hair, which had been haphazardly cut only two weeks ago by Ginny. Hermione stifled a sob at the memory. Ginny had been determined to trim both Harry's and Ron's hair, after Hermione had complained they'd both become rather unruly. After much cajoling from both Ginny and Hermione, the boys had surrendered. Naturally, there hadn't been much improvement on Harry's messy hair, but she'd insisted it wasn't her fault. Ron had reluctantly given his longish locks over to experiment, and the result had taken some adjustment to accept. After a week or so of growth, however, Ron had decided it was 'cool'.  
  
Hermione's mouth quirked as the small, spiky strands poked up between her fingers. She loved Ron's hair, had always loved it. It was perhaps the most vibrant of red amongst the Weasleys, and the spikes were rather disarming, she had to admit. If she ran her hand over the top, the longest tufts tickled her palm. Ginny had apologized for days afterwards, believing that Hermione hated it (which she had at first), and the memory hiccupped inside.  
  
Ron sighed, bringing Hermione's gaze from his hair down to his troubled face. He stared up at her with such gratitude that she lost her breath, then he closed his eyes and bowed his head. He wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her closer, resting his lowered forehead against her stomach. She could feel him breathing slowly, carefully, against her.  
  
It was very intimate, but Hermione's skin didn't scintillate as it usually did. Ron's embrace comforted her, and she brushed her fingertips soothingly through his hair, feeling Ron's breathing begin to steady and quiet.  
  
An eerie tranquility settled over the dormitory, and Hermione looked up to see Harry paused at the window overlooking the dark forest. The taut line of his silhouette had eased into an inclusive huddle as he leaned against the cold stone wall, his face turned to the dreary grounds and blackness of the forest. The rigid line of his jaw had slacked, and Hermione realized he was blinking furiously.  
  
It was easier, almost safer, for Harry to be angry, Hermione knew. Anger was easier to deal with, but perhaps harder to control, than pain and anguish. Harry had said almost nothing since two nights ago, had been broody and distant, and his eyes had betrayed some heavy guilt within. Hermione knew not what was troubling him-aside from Voldemort-but had deciphered that something had happened between him and Ginny. Ginny had been rather anxious and subdued and sending Harry furtive looks that he seemed to avoid.  
  
Friday night before she had gone to bed, Hermione had thought Harry and Ginny were studying rather cozily, and the guarded mask Harry perpetually wore had been forgotten. She had accomplished virtually nothing in her studies due to the Halloween feast and her fascination with watching how Harry's eyes had shone, his cheeks had flushed, and his rare but infectious smile had stretched across his thin face. Ron had done his best to ignore it, only once whispering that he hoped Ginny would remember that Harry only wanted friendship.  
  
Something had happened after she'd gone to bed, Hermione was sure of it. Saturday morning Ginny had met Hermione at the top of the spiraling stairs, eyes shining but looking almost nauseated. She spoke of nothing interesting, but had watched the entrance of the Great Hall anxiously while discussing her shortened Muggle Studies lesson from Friday afternoon. Then Harry and Ron had finally decided to get up, and Hermione had been certain something had transpired late Halloween night. Ginny had gone inexplicably pale, and Harry had picked at his toast and said only a syllable or two as way of conversation.  
  
The entire day had passed like that, and Hermione had found no trace of the spark that'd been lit within Harry the night before. Ginny had grown increasingly diminished and introspective, sending Harry imploring, worried looks to no avail.  
  
Had they quarreled? Hermione wondered. Harry and Ginny had had a disagreement here or there over the past three years, but never anything serious. Ginny's Weasley temper rarely overwhelmed her where Harry was concerned, and Harry was always rather sensitive and careful around her. As he's always been, thought Hermione. Not once had he ever said anything unkind to her, even when she'd been awkward with her infatuation in her first year.  
  
Hermione remembered waking up in the middle of the night to an empty common room. She'd blearily woken Ron and they'd stumbled up the stairs to their separate dormitories. She'd slept late, as it seemed everyone had. Breakfast had almost finished by the time Hermione and Ron went down to the Great Hall. "Harry said he wasn't hungry," Ron had said groggily. "He sounded sick. Better bring him some toast or juice, anyway."  
  
Ginny didn't appear all through breakfast. Hermione figured that if both Harry and Ginny were still in bed that they had either studied very late, had both gotten sick, or had a disagreement of some sort. When she didn't appear by lunchtime, Hermione had asked Alyson Baker, a sixth year, if Ginny was sick.  
  
"No. I haven't seen her since last night. I thought she was with you lot," Alyson had said, her eyes quickly widening with realization. Hermione didn't know Alyson well, only that she was a friend of Ginny's. "And her things are still on the table."  
  
Hermione and Ron had instantly barged into Harry's dormitory, where he'd been apparently pretending to sleep.  
  
"Harry!" Ron had roared, raking the scarlet curtains aside and yanking back the covers. "Get up! Ginny's missing!"  
  
Hermione closed her eyes against the hiccough in her throat. Harry had been instantly on his feet, pulling a sweater over his bare chest, grabbing his wand and stuffing his bare feet into shoes simultaneously, then throwing his cloak over his shoulders and running to the door before she or Ron could say anything else. Alyson had followed them and was staring at Harry with affixed terror on her pretty face.  
  
He didn't even have to interrogate any of the sixth year girls. They had all gathered around him at once, terrified, each one saying the same thing: the last they'd seen of Ginny, she'd been studying with Harry.  
  
Ron had procured the Marauder's Map and confirmed that Ginny was nowhere in Hogwarts castle or on the grounds. One of the younger prefects, Adrienne, had disappeared while the news spread through Gryffindor Tower that Ginny Weasley was missing. Soon Dumbledore and McGonagall were questioning everyone and reminding the frantic students to stay calm. Yet everyone knew what had happened: Ginny had been taken by Death Eaters.  
  
Since the fifth of September, Hogwarts had been under siege. While Death Eater attacks still frequented the Daily Prophet's front page, and every morning students stiffened if an unfamiliar owl delivered a letter, every student feared the entrenchment around their once-secure school. Hogsmeade was under arrest of the Dark Lord and his followers. Several houses had been burned, but luckily many residents had fled at the first sign of an attack. The death toll was small but still devastating to the wizard populace.  
  
Half of the students preached constantly of Hogwarts' impenetrable protection spells, how Dumbledore was about to march right out onto the sprawling lawn and challenge Voldemort to a wizard's duel and end the war altogether. Yet, as a despairing half argued, why hadn't Dumbledore ended the war already, and remember Sirius Black? He had infiltrated Hogwarts four years ago, and if he could do it, then Voldemort could do it. A few scathing, desperate students had even suggested that Harry either surrender to or challenge the Dark Lord.  
  
"Don't even think about it!" Hermione, Ron, and Ginny had hissed at Harry whenever his eyes flickered thoughtfully. "Voldemort wants to kill you, but he won't stop there!"  
  
"But what if I could stop him?" Harry had asked.  
  
"If you know a way, mate, tell us all, but if you haven't got a plan, then don't do anything."  
  
"Don't be stupid, Harry!"  
  
"You don't want to die, Harry," Ginny would say softly. Harry would stare at her for a moment, and then he would agree that no, he didn't want to die, but he would if necessary. Ginny always looked close to tears when he said this, and Hermione's heart always tightened.  
  
Ron's breathing hiccoughed, drawing Hermione out of her thoughts and back to the quiet room. She pulled her eyes away from Harry, who continued to stare out at the dark forest. Gazing down at Ron's pale face, Hermione touched his cheek.  
  
"I just don't understand it," he said quietly, shaking his head and leaning back slightly. He kept his arms securely around her waist. "She must have left the castle, but she knows not to. Why would she leave in the middle of the night?"  
  
Hermione shook her head, but felt her eyes fasten on Harry again. He had obviously heard Ron, judging by the slight tilt of his head and the tightened jaw. Harry had been the last to see Ginny. Something must have happened.  
  
"I don't know, Ron," she said softly. She sighed and sat down beside him on the four-poster bed without removing herself from his embrace. "We don't even know if she was taken from inside or outside the castle."  
  
Harry suddenly whirled around from the window, causing Hermione and Ron to lift their heads alertly. His eyes glistened and Hermione was certain he had been fighting tears at the window.  
  
"I'm going to talk to Dumbledore," said Harry shortly.  
  
"Harry, he told us to stay here until he had news!" protested Hermione, standing up hastily.  
  
"I'm not going to leave the castle or anything," Harry continued irritably. "I just want to see if he knows anything else. I can't just sit here and do nothing!"  
  
"Fine. We're going with you."  
  
~*~*~  
  
At last, Ron thought as Harry opened the dormitory door, we're going to do something. Not that it was really anything, but shifting weight onto his feet and forcing his muscles to move invoked action. And Ron needed action. This terrible numbness that had seized his mind and body was unbearable. Not once had he felt a spark of anger, not even when Harry had threatened Draco Malfoy and the git had merely smirked. All he could think about was how happy Ginny had been on Halloween, determined to draw a smile from Harry's dark countenance. She'd made them all laugh and momentarily believe that Hogwarts was as usual, that there hadn't been any deaths.  
  
Even as he recalled the tenacity of Ginny's optimism, he saw her, shattered, as she crawled through the hole he'd made in the rubble from the collapsed tunnel under the castle. Dirty, pale, eyes streaming with tears. He'd tried to hug her, so happy to see her alive, but she'd been too ashamed of herself for comfort.  
  
She survived the Chamber of Secrets, Ron told himself repeatedly. She'll be all right. He did not believe it. Too many people had died. People who weren't even connected with the Order of the Phoenix. Kill the spare. Kill anyone.  
  
Ginny was not dead!  
  
But if she wasn't dead, she'd be used for some cruel, evil purpose. Ron knew what Cruciatus felt like.  
  
He shuddered as he started down the spiral staircase into the Gryffindor common room. Ron was vaguely aware of Harry striding determinedly for the portrait hole, blatantly ignoring the stares, and Hermione pushing him gently from behind. Numbly, he stumbled down the last step, feeling the sympathetic eyes prickling the back of his neck. As all those years ago, no one tried to stop them.  
  
"I thought you lot were supposed to stay inside?" demanded the Fat Lady when all three were outside Gryffindor Tower. She pursed her lips disapprovingly, but didn't seem angry.  
  
Ron saw a wrinkled handkerchief in one of her fat fists. How dare a portrait mourn his sister? She wasn't . . . she was alive!  
  
"We're going to Dumbledore," said Hermione calmly to the Fat Lady, a firm but gentle hand on Ron's elbow.  
  
She was eyeing Harry nervously as he edged further down the corridor. "We'll be back. Honest."  
  
"Humph."  
  
The journey to Dumbledore's office was silent aside from the somber patrolling prefects and teachers. Whenever stopped, Harry or Hermione would merely explain they were going to Dumbledore, and would be pardoned. It was strikingly poignant to Ron that Professor Snape didn't appear behind them, snappishly accusing them of breaking and crossing the line.  
  
Snape had died at Voldemort's hands last year. Minutes after Ron had been introduced to the Cruciatus Curse.  
  
Cedric, Hagrid, Snape. Murdered one year after another. It was easier to deal with deaths reported in the Daily Prophet, to see the black envelopes bearing the dreaded announcement to other students. We won't even get a black letter, Ron thought morbidly as they reached Dumbledore's gargoyle. Even if the barrier wasn't there.  
  
With the siege, communication with the Order of Phoenix operating outside Hogwarts was scarce. The communication fireplace was constantly switched, and absolutely no one could enter anywhere but the front entrance, which was charmed only to admit students and staff. No Floo, no Portkeys. Soon the small filtering of owls allowed through the barriers constructed by both Dumbledore and the Death Eaters had been completely trapped either inside or outside the school. Pig had not been seen since the beginning of October, but Hedwig was safe inside the menagerie, as she had been too conspicuous to use for quite some time.  
  
Sirius and Remus had spent part of their summer creating more versions of the Marauder's Map, and so every passage was under surveillance. Unfortunately, communication with two of the most prominent and important members of the Order had been almost nonexistent. Ron wasn't even certain how the Order communicated these days, or how Dumbledore expected to procure a plan for rescuing Ginny-if she was alive.  
  
"She is alive!" exclaimed Ron vehemently. His voice sliced through the stillness of the corridor, causing all three of them to startle.  
  
"I know, Ron," said Hermione gently, her eyes wide.  
  
Ron glanced away. He hadn't meant to say anything aloud.  
  
Harry wasn't looking at him, but muttering the password to the gargoyle. It slid open and they all gravely stepped onto the moving staircase, slowly spiraling upwards into Dumbledore's tower. It felt longer than usual, and yet Ron knew time had barely passed. What would he find in Dumbledore's office? No news? A ransom letter? Declaration of-no. Ginny was alive. She had to be.  
  
At the top of the stairs, Ron felt a burst of anger rip through his despondent thoughts. Harry had just raised his fist to knock when Dumbledore's door swung open and illuminated the most hated person in Ron's mind, smirking smugly and straightening his robes.  
  
"What are you doing here?" Hermione demanded while snatching a fistful of robe from Ron and Harry. Her voice sliced through Ron's broiling fury, and he was grateful for her presence. She was keeping a cool head, deliberately remaining logical and commandeering everything.  
  
Malfoy sneered. "That's my own business, Granger. Perhaps you, Potter, and Weasel should refrain from accusing the innocent."  
  
Harry let out a harsh, cold laugh. "Get out of the way, Malfoy, unless you want to confess."  
  
"About what?" said Malfoy airily, raising his eyebrows.  
  
"Where is my sister, you bastard!" growled Ron. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at Malfoy, who looked momentarily frightened before his face relaxed.  
  
"Oh, really, Weasley! Curse me, I dare you. Not even Dumbledore will overlook the offense."  
  
"He's right, Ron," Hermione said quietly, placing a soothing but firm hand on his shoulder.  
  
For one long minute, Ron met Draco's malevolent, challenging stare, irrepressible rage coursing through his blood. He didn't care if Dumbledore was just inside the door, or that Azkaban would become his permanent residence if he harmed Malfoy. Hatred. He hated Malfoy.  
  
"Go on, Weasley," whispered Malfoy, as if dangling a tantalizing treat in the air. "Hex me."  
  
"Ron," Hermione pleaded, her grip tightening.  
  
Another second passed before Ron fully realized the situation. Gradually his senses began to return to him, although the loathing did not lessen. He felt Hermione's nervous hands clasped around his robes, and Harry's tense gaze jumping between him and Malfoy. He saw the flicker of triumph in that sniveling face, and Ron briefly reconsidered. But he lowered his wand and stepped back.  
  
"I'd rather give you a kick down the stairs," he muttered darkly as Malfoy shoved past Hermione, distinctly whispering, "Mudblood," as he passed.  
  
Malfoy's steps hurried, and Ron grinned faintly. Then he quickly grew somber and turned back to his friends.  
  
Hermione's eyes were wet, her face still tense. "Oh, Ron! If you'd cursed him-"  
  
"I didn't, okay?"  
  
"I know, but-" Her shining eyes darted frantically around the small antechamber, her mouth working silently, her lips curling as they just did just before she would start to cry.  
  
"Hermione!" Ron quickly grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently but firmly. She glanced at him, and he sucked in sharply. She was going to cry. Somehow her moment of weakness, the loss of her stolid vigil, shook Ron more deeply than Malfoy's sneering face. Placing a palm against each of her cheeks , he anchored her shaking head, forcing her to look at him. "Hermione, listen to me," he said quietly. "It's okay."  
  
She shuddered and nodded, tearing eyes fastened on him. "I know, Ron. I know." Then her face collapsed and a sob escaped. Ron quickly wrapped his arms tightly around her and kissed her forehead. It was such bittersweet relief to give whatever solace he could offer.  
  
"It's okay," he said softly, rubbing her back slowly. "It's okay." It wasn't okay, but what else could he say? He didn't believe a word he said, but if he could wrap his arms around Hermione, or she could run her hands affectionately through his hair, he would be all right. Hermione's pain rescued him from his daze. He wasn't helpless if he had a purpose.  
  
"Okay," she choked, lifting her head from his chest. Clearing her throat, she wiped methodically at her eyes and pushed hair away from her face. "Okay." Their eyes met briefly, gratified, before Ron remembered Harry standing silently against the wall.  
  
"Harry-" Ron began to say, but stopped. Harry looked politely embarrassed, as he always did whenever Ron or Hermione allowed their feelings to show, but there was something else in his darkened gaze. Yearning and . . . regret? Guilt?  
  
"Ready?" said Ron, feeling uneasy.  
  
Harry nodded and knocked. The door swung open and Ron filed in behind him, noting that the angry tension in Harry's neck had slumped. In second year, Harry had been miserable because it had been Ron's sister taken hostage, not Ginny. It wasn't sympathy for Ron now, but misery for himself and Ginny. The loss of a friend.  
  
She is not lost!  
  
Ron pulled his gaze away from Harry and cast his eyes once around the tinkling, chiming little instruments that would have wooed his father, and fastened his attention hungrily on Dumbledore. The wizened Headmaster was sitting at his desk, stroking Fawkes, and gazing at them with his indecipherable blue eyes. Startling, Ron recognized Sirius Black standing at Dumbledore's shoulder, looking caught between leaping at them and gesticulating wildly at the Headmaster.  
  
"You have news, then?" said Harry hopefully.  
  
A definitive look passed between the two wizards, and Ron's hope, spurred by Harry's hungry words, balked.  
  
"What is it?" he asked in a strained voice. It barely occurred to him to ask how Sirius was inside Hogwarts, or if Draco Malfoy had seen him.  
  
Dumbledore cleared his throat, and Sirius stepped back obligingly. Ron noticed that Sirius was gazing closely at Harry, whose expression was unfathomable.  
  
"Nothing concrete has been confirmed, Ron," said Dumbledore gravely. "As it has been concluded that Lucius Malfoy is in fact an active member of Voldemort's coterie, I have questioned Draco. Your fellow student has no knowledge of the Ginny's whereabouts."  
  
"He could be lying, Professor," Harry protested quietly.  
  
Dumbledore bowed his head, acknowledging the possibility, but did not address it. "Furthermore, there has not yet been a delivery of any terms-" He paused and gazed solemnly at them, as if weighing his next words. "It is possible that Voldemort's motives for Ginny are not as simple as initially believed-"  
  
"You mean," said Hermione, her voice still unsteady, "that he isn't going to use her to get to Harry? Or the Order? For something else?"  
  
Dumbledore gazed at her steadily, and Ron felt his blood run cold. Although he didn't want his sister used as bait or an exchange for Harry, it meant that she was alive and could be rescued. But if Voldemort's purpose was something else . . .  
  
"It is possible, Miss Granger, though not certain."  
  
"She knew."  
  
Ron snapped his head towards Harry, who'd spoken so softly, as if amazed. He looked sick and dazed, meeting no one's gaze, but fixated on Fawkes. The phoenix gazed back steadily, and Harry seemed lost, for he relapsed into his silence.  
  
"She knew what, Harry?" asked Dumbledore gently.  
  
Harry didn't stir from his dolor or tear his eyes from Fawkes, but he spoke in that hushed, stunned voice. "She knew. After the Death Eater attack in fifth year . . . she said that she wondered if Voldemort knew about the diary . . . And when he did find out, if he would . . ." But he trailed off.  
  
A heavy silence fell over them. What could Voldemort do to Ginny, now that he was at full strength? Ron wondered, feeling his blood turn cold. Ginny's life had evanesced under the possession of a mere memory . . .  
  
"What are we going to do, then?" Hermione spoke up after a long minute, sounding twelve again. Ron slipped his fingers through hers and squeezed tightly.  
  
"You three," Sirius answered, stepping around Dumbledore's desk, "aren't doing anything but keeping safe. No, Harry-save your heroics." The wizard's gaze prohibited any protest, but Ron could feel his friend's frustration and hurt. The formidable wizard's **Just say Sirius's** harsh gaze softened instantly. "Harry, Ron, Hermione-it would be more harmful to Ginny and yourselves if we're ignorant or rash. All three of you are prime targets for Voldemort. Until we know what is happening, or where she is, there is nothing anyone can do."  
  
"Did you try Malfoy Manor?" Ron suggested, unable to hide his loathing.  
  
"Ever since Lucius declared his allegiance to Voldemort," sighed Sirius, "Malfoy Manor has become impenetrable. It's now Unplottable, although Arthur Weasley and other members of the Ministry are aware of its location. Breaching Charms have been erected, along with every defensive hex or curse using light or Dark magic. It's as well protected as Hogwarts."  
  
"So, obviously, Ginny's there!"  
  
"It has been one of the Order's priorities to breach Malfoy Manor, Ron," Sirius continued, "but as of yet, we have not found a solution. As far as we can tell, you must have the Dark Mark to enter the manor alive."  
  
It seemed rather melodramatic to say, yet Ron knew it to be true, unless you were a hostage. A massive assault might be successful, but the casualties would be a devastating loss for the Order. Fred and George had ardently adopted the Malfoy mission from its birth, insisting that the incorporation of their inventions could be beneficial to the operation. And Mum thought their pranks would never come to good use.  
  
"How far have they gotten?" Ron asked, remembering the miniature models of Malfoy Manor cluttering his father's garage. Harry and Ron had enjoyed watching a tiny version of Draco explode last summer.  
  
Sirius only shook his head. "Not far enough."  
  
"Harry, Ron, Hermione," said Dumbledore, casting his stern eyes over them in turn. "I want you to return to your dormitories. You may return later tonight."  
  
Ron wanted to protest, but knew there wasn't anything he could do. Marching out of the castle would probably succeed in bringing him to Ginny, but it would only further complicate everything for the Order. Two captured Weasleys-his mother wouldn't be able to handle it.  
  
"Professor Dumbledore," he said suddenly. "What about my mum?"  
  
Sirius and Dumbledore exchanged meaningful looks, and then Dumbledore said, "We will be sending word to her shortly."  
  
Ron opened his mouth to ask how, but Fawkes suddenly stretched out his great wings in a long stretch. The bird stared back at him with intelligent beady eyes.  
  
Then Sirius was ushering them out the door, but Harry didn't follow. Instead he stepped up to Dumbledore and said in a low voice, "Can I talk with you, er, privately, Professor?" 


	3. The Darkness Within

Chapter Three  
  
"The Darkness Within"  
  
Fleeing . . .  
  
Empty corridor, but patrolled just beyond. The humpback witch . . . someone coming . . . the other tunnel, the one to the willow. Darkness, echoing footsteps, gasping breathes. Not true! Not true! Oh, but it is true, it is! Must escape . . . air! No moon . . . no wind . . . so quiet, so peaceful. Hagrid's hut-  
  
"STUPEFY!"  
  
Pain-darkness.  
  
Cold. So cold. Aching. Everywhere it's cold and aching. Drip, drip, drip. Metallic water. Dark shadows with shifting rats, no humans. One man. Scabbers. Pettigrew. More beyond the solid stone walls.  
  
So cold!  
  
The distinction between dreaming and consciousness blurred as Ginny's eyes fluttered open. The gloomy, sickly yellow light emanating from somewhere beyond the inky blackness enveloping her meant she was awake. She moaned, but no sound escaped her parched, scratchy throat. Her mouth was thick, her tongue languid and dead. An excruciating beating pounded in her head- or was it her chest? She couldn't tell.  
  
I must do something, she thought vaguely as her eyes sought anything comforting in the gloom. I can't just lie here. I'm captured.  
  
Captured. She'd been a hostage before. Captured, for a year, completely captive by an evil being's memory. Used. Bait. Again?  
  
The instinct to panic, to succumb to the hysteria lurking just beyond her peripheral sense, almost overwhelmed Ginny. Gasping, she physically evaded the danger, allowing the deep ache of her protesting body to control her thoughts. Mustering her wavering strength, she uncurled her shivering body and sat against the icy stone wall. Every limb screamed for rest, but she gritted her teeth and forced every joint to bend.  
  
Good, I haven't broken anything. So this is what it feels like to be Stunned.  
  
Physical pain was liberation, and Ginny kept her mind from straying by carefully reexamining her clammy body. She had scratches, no doubt from the scraping of stone, and her cheek felt swollen and sticky, but otherwise there wasn't a trace of visible physical harm. At least, not that she could detect in the weak light.  
  
At least it isn't total darkness. I'd go mad.  
  
But if only I had something to drink! she thought, regretfully reaching for the empty cup Pettigrew had given her earlier. How long ago had that been? she wondered. How long had she slept and wallowed in those dark thoughts? Hours? Days? She was thirsty, hungry, and so cold. Already her mind was losing focus on any single thought. A mere blur of pain, tears, night skies, dark chambers, diaries, and Tom Riddles.  
  
"Oh, help," she croaked thickly, feeling her eyes itch and sting. "Oh, help!"  
  
And then there was a noise from beyond the shadows. Ginny's head snapped towards the door, invisible in the shadows, watching her. The sound of a lock, a faint whisper of a spell, heavy iron being moved, and the door creaked open.  
  
It was Pettigrew.  
  
Ginny tensed, a dark emotion stirring within her. Yet she couldn't focus on it as the pathetic man shuffled into the cell, a bucket of water sloshing invitingly towards her. His tiny, beady eyes glistened in the torchlight, the silver hand glittering from within the folds of his tattered cloak.  
  
"Ah, awake?" he inquired in that tremulous, warbled voice. He paused, just within the stained glow, as if anticipating an answer. When she offered him none, he licked his lips fretfully and fidgeted with the bucket. After a moment of worrisome behavior, Pettigrew shuffled forward again, wincing as Ginny flattened herself against the wall and glared defiantly at him.  
  
It was agonizing to watch this man who could have been Neville Longbottom with all of his insecurities and nervousness, yet Ginny knew exactly what he was capable of doing. Betrayal. Murder. She was repulsed.  
  
The sound of the water in the bucket as he set it down was unbearable. She licked her parched, cracked lips as Pettigrew reached for her empty cup and dunked it into the bucket. Musical trickling reverberated in the cell as the water cascaded back into the bucket. Pettigrew had barely offered it before she snatched it out of his one fleshy hand and held it up to her begging, trembling mouth.  
  
The cup tasted like rotting wood and the water was stale, but Ginny drank thirstily in loud gulps, vaguely shuddering as the liquid dribbled from the corners of her mouth and down her neck. It was gone too quickly, and she looked up at her hunched jailer.  
  
"More," she croaked pleadingly. To her amazement, he refilled it twice more until she ached from the shock of it. "Thank you," Ginny gasped before she realized it, her body reeling with gratitude.  
  
Blissfully, she closed her eyes, drowning in the sharp ache of her stomach. Everything was peculiarly acute and dull all at once. She could focus, or she could float. The biting cold was prickling, yet it didn't seem quite so uncomfortable as before. The stone dug into her back, but it was almost tender. If she could just keep her eyes closed . . .  
  
But then Pettigrew was moving again. Moaning softly, regretfully, Ginny lifted her eyes to find the hapless man unfolding a very thin, roughly-spun woolen cloak.  
  
"H-here," he stuttered, shuffling forward. "M-master . . . Lord V- Voldemort doesn't want you sick."  
  
Ginny stared at him, unable to comprehend as Pettigrew knelt down and draped the shabby cloak over her shivering body. She flinched at his touch, and he drew back hastily.  
  
Voldemort . . . here . . . Tom . . .  
  
"What does he want with me?" she demanded. Something was moving inside her . . . deep down . . . restless, urgent! Ginny's hysteria, her panic, began to mount desperately over the presence buried beneath. "Does he want to kill me, is that it? Torture me? What does he want with me?"  
  
Pettigrew's hands were fluttering around him, his lip was trembling, beads of sweat appearing on his wrinkled, sullen brow. "I-I cannot tell you, Miss Ginny-"  
  
"Don't call me that!"  
  
Pettigrew silenced. He bent down and withdrew the bucket, shaking his head and shuffling backwards. "Soon. He will see you soon."  
  
And then he was reclaimed by the inky, thick shadows. The door opened and closed, the lock thudded forebodingly, and the soft, final casting of a spell sent Ginny's heart pounding. The darkness pressed in again, but its despairing effect was lost on Ginny. The darkness, the pain, the cold-it didn't matter. What mattered was what was moving inside her, wakening, beckoning, coercing . . .  
  
Pettigrew had told her nothing, yet she knew everything. Voldemort wanted her for an evil purpose, and she didn't believe it was a mere prize exchange or strike against **the** Order. As she pulled the rough cloak tightly around her shivering body, she steeled herself. It was moving, growing, that presence she'd locked away deep inside.  
  
It-he-wanted to be released.  
  
"No," she whispered into the emptiness. The ache in her stomach had subsided, and her mind was becoming focused and aware. With sudden clairvoyance, Ginny felt a calm determination settling over her, resolutely forcing him into her deepest recesses. She was afraid, but determined. If she were to die or be tortured or aid Voldemort in any way-she was going to fight.  
  
"I can fight," Ginny Weasley spoke defiantly to the lurking presence. "And I will!"  
  
Although silence was her only audible answer, she heard a terrible, quaking laugh, deeper than the silence, that permeated the impenetrable stone walls.  
  
"I will fight," she whispered. "I will."  
  
~*~*~  
  
After hours of the dank cold, Ginny felt herself grow numb to her hysteria. She felt too weak to tremble;her body ached dully from the hard stone, but her mind drifted languorously away from her body. Hours passed, she knew that, but could neither sense it nor feel it. She could only feel her weakness brushing against her resolve. And him.  
  
She knew precisely when he'd arrived. Although far below the ground, she could almost hear the delicate pacing of his contemplative steps as he moved above her. That place in her mind seemed to sway, like a snake following its charmer's tune, making her nauseated and dizzy.  
  
I just want to float away. From here, from him.  
  
The swaying continued for hours, lulling her into a daze. And then it stopped. That presence reared excitedly, and Ginny cried out against it.  
  
Her eyes flew open to the darkness, her breathing came in short gasps. Only silence surrounded her, yet she sensed the commotion above and around her, drawing nearer, the hunger, the thirst! It would not be long, it hissed in her ear, not long now.  
  
The creaking of the cell door grated loudly in Ginny's ear, and she fought the urge to scream. Cloaked figures were filing into the cell, tall and foreboding, the air thick with malicious anticipation. Panic swelled inside her, and as three masked figures swooped down upon her, she grasped desperately for her resolve.  
  
Cold, hard hands grabbed her forearms and roughly hauled her to her feet. Ginny gasped as her frozen muscles protested. "L-let go of me!" she croaked, her throat closed and dry. Her captors ignored her protests, dragging her through the shadows and under the sickly glow from the doorway.  
  
Too weak to fight, Ginny was dragged into a dimly lighted dungeon corridor, and she could see other closed cells along the twisting passage. Flickering torches cast dancing shadows against the damp stone every few meters. She wondered if any other prisoners were behind the heavily barred doors they passed. The corridor seemed to curve and twist forever, and she knew she'd never find the way back to her cell, if she ever had the notion to return of her own accord.  
  
Even as her head swam with dizziness, she felt something within her growing stronger, and she knew she didn't need to be dragged to her destination. She could follow that burning sensation coursing through her. It was excited, filling her body with anticipation and fear.  
  
The Death Eaters clutching her arms spoke not a word, nor did the one leading them through the dungeon. She sensed the heavy footsteps of the Death Eater behind her and shuddered. Her skin prickled, and her eyes turned upwards, morbidly curious. Who were behind those hideous skull masks of death? The cowls of their heavy black cloaks were eased back, and eyes glittered whenever they passed a torch.  
  
And suddenly, without any warning, the four Death Eaters halted. The leader pulled out his wand, held it straight over his head, and murmured an incantation. Faint green light emanated from its tip, and suddenly a burst of brighter light illuminated the wizard. Another flick of the wand, and a small stair unfolded from the stone edge of the gap. Blinking in the unaccustomed light, Ginny realized it was a trap door.  
  
The Death Eater started up the steps. When the hem of his cloak swished out of sight, one of her captors released her and followed. It occurred to her now was the time to free herself, but there was nowhere to run. Up led to waiting Death Eaters, and behind her was only the dark maze of dungeons.  
  
"Up with you now," said a deep, cold voice from under the mask.  
  
Ginny glanced at the Death Eater, wondering again who it might be. Any of them. Harry knew the names of many Death Eaters. This one towered over her, the black cloak concealing extremely broad shoulders, and most likely thick, powerful arms. She shuddered and stepped forward, feeling the Dark wizard press close behind her, bodily moving her up the small steps into the light.  
  
Instantly warm light bathed and soothed her, and she blinked rapidly in the brightness. She could hear a fire crackling somewhere nearby. Hands grasped her forearms again, but she felt less afraid in the light. When the spots cleared, she saw she was standing in an ornate study or parlor of some sort. The ceiling was sculpted, the walls lined with impressive shelves of old tomes. Dark furniture of antique or foreign origin, crafted to the tiniest detail and utmost skill, absorbed the light from the silver and crystal chandelier. The fireplace roared to her right, and she saw a hearth that rivaled Hogwarts' best. The marbling was neither green nor silver, but both, so it seemed to ripple if she looked at it too long. Sculpted serpents slithered up either side of the hearth, their black jeweled eyes glittering fixedly at her.  
  
"Welcome, Ginny Weasley," said a smooth, greasy voice before her, "to Malfoy Manor."  
  
Ginny felt an icy chill run down her spine as she wrenched her eyes from the hearth to the wizard standing before her. She felt anger boil inside her as she looked upon the gloating, icy blue gaze, the pale, smooth face and silvery blonde hair. An irrational urge to tear her fingernails through Lucius Malfoy caused Ginny to pull against the iron hold of her captors.  
  
Lucius smirked at her attempt. "I can see you're not a very gracious . . . guest." He laughed at his own joke, that cruel curl of his lips snaking over his thin mouth. "I saw you admiring my hearth," he said conversationally, gesturing towards the fireplace. "No doubt finer than anything you've ever seen."  
  
"I think it's ugly!"  
  
Malfoy snapped his head around. He stared angrily at her for a moment, then smiled indulgently. "Of course, why should I expect a Weasley to have any appreciation for fine art?"  
  
You are ugly, Ginny thought, but did not say. She glared furiously at Mr. Malfoy, thinking how very much Draco was like his father. It suddenly occurred to her how she'd yelled at Draco, he'd embarrassed her, and Harry had said nothing . . . And somehow Malfoy had slipped Tom's diary into her cauldron. This man had ruined her first year at Hogwarts, her chance at everything!  
  
Let me rip, let me tear!  
  
"No!" she gasped. "Stop it!"  
  
Around her the Death Eaters laughed at her outburst. Ginny sucked in a trembling breath and looked down at her bare feet, away from Lucius' calculating gaze. Her heart hammered against her chest, and she heard the soft, high cruel laughter of her nightmares. She closed her eyes, feeling tears burn behind them. Let me rip . . . let me tear!  
  
"Come now," said Lucius, clapping his hands together as if summoning a servant. "Macnair, escort our impertinent guest to her quarters. Send Wormtail up with some food. Our Master does not want her ill for the examining."  
  
Macnair . . . Ginny recognized the name, but couldn't precisely remember where from. As she was propelled through the threshold into a lighted corridor with crimson holders for the torches, Ginny suddenly heard Ron's furious and sickened voice. Macnair almost executed Buckbeak!  
  
And then she was distracted from her horror as Macnair led her on a rough tour of Malfoy Manor. Despite her terror, she was awed by the cold, austere grandeur and opulence of the manor. She vaguely wondered if she were indeed inside a medieval castle, and not merely a manor house. The few enormous portraits were clearly of Malfoys long dead and gone, but determined to cast their conniving eyes upon her as she was pushed past. She shivered, not for the first time, as she passed through the corridor, not at all comforted by the knowledge of her whereabouts.  
  
With an unceremonious shove, Macnair pushed Ginny into another chamber, which she guessed to be towards the back of Malfoy Manor. It was darker in this room, despite the blazing fireplace, and a definite, clammy chill seemed to wrap itself predatorily around her. She squinted into the darkened corners of the room and sensed something . . . an eerie presence, something sinister in repose.  
  
The door slammed behind her. Ginny whirled around to find MacNair gone. She didn't need to twist the ornate knob to know she was locked inside. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she slowly faced the room, and stifled a cry of terror.  
  
A shadow was moving, undulating slowly, luxuriously from the side of the crackling hearth. Jewel-like eyes glittered inquisitively from the reptilian head that arched gracefully against the flames. A forked tongue flicked, tasting the air, tasting her.  
  
It's a basilisk . . . she first thought, but as she stared, petrified, into those intelligent, gleaming eyes, she realized her lungs were begging for air, and that she was conscious. The compulsion to scream overwhelmed her, but when she opened her mouth, no sound came out.  
  
The great snake's head rose higher, its powerful body uncoiling as it slithered towards Ginny. She choked on another scream and stepped back she hit the door.  
  
"Oh . . . oh please no!" she gasped, grappling for the doorknob. The snake's tongue flicked again as it weaved around the commanding armchair facing the fireplace. She saw that it was an acid, poisonous green, the large scales catching the light. A deadly beauty.  
  
"No . . . no!" Ginny pleaded, pressing herself hard against the door. She was trapped, the snake was going to kill her, all she wanted to do was scream-  
  
And then the snake recoiled, its tongue tasting the air again. Then Ginny heard it-a fumbling outside the door. Unmindful of the snake, she backed away from the door, her heart pounding. Eyes wide, panic ready, she watched as the knob slowly turned, and Pettigrew shuffled into the room carrying a tray with covered dishes and a glass of water.  
  
The snake hissed disdainfully, and Ginny shuddered, fervently telling herself she'd imagined the coherent syllables. Snakes did not mutter.  
  
"Nagini, y-you behave," Pettigrew said to the snake, his voice just as tremulous as down in the dungeons.  
  
Ginny glanced unwillingly at the enormous snake, whose eyes were fastened on the wizard with contempt. Its head weaved contemplatively, and Pettigrew gave a nervous fluttering sound and quickly stepped far to the furthest wall, where a small reading table rested under a shuttered window.  
  
"Ah-er, Miss Ginny-" Pettigrew paused, as if waiting for Ginny to rebuke him, but she was too frightened and bewildered. He coughed, swallowed, and gestured awkwardly at the tray. "Some soup, bread, and water. Y-you'd better eat it."  
  
"I'm not hungry," Ginny lied, frozen near the door. She could feel Nagini's gaze fixed on her again. Although her stomach seemed rather unaffected by her fear, she couldn't bear to cross the room under that nefarious gaze.  
  
"Oh," said Pettigrew, a deflated look on his face. He seemed incredibly old and shriveled, his cheeks seeming to droop off his skull. "B-but you must keep your strength up."  
  
A ridiculous urge to laugh welled up in Ginny's throat. Were the Death Eaters really so concerned with her welfare? How long had she been in the dungeon cold, thirsting and starving? The soup was probably poisoned, anyway . . .  
  
"Why?" demanded Ginny, once her throat began working. "Why should I eat? You're only going to torture or-" she swallowed, and her voice shook, "kill me."  
  
"N-not if, if you . . ." but Pettigrew trailed off and cast his eyes away from her. He clamped his mouth shut and nervously stroked his silver hand. "Eat," he squeaked. "Master will . . . be here soon."  
  
And then he was shuffling past her, giving Nagini a wide berth. The snake let out a sharp, mocking hiss that sounded eerily like laughter. Then Pettigrew was gone, and Ginny was alone with the snake.  
  
Yet she didn't feel endangered. Frightened out of her wits, oh yes . . . but endangered, no. Those jeweled eyes gleamed with knowing, and then the head turned away. The green body slithered across the study to the little table.  
  
"Come."  
  
Ginny gasped.  
  
"Eat."  
  
No, she thought desperately, feeling an icy chill freeze the blood in her veins. I'm not hearing this, I'm not understanding! I don't speak Parseltongue! Yet a nasty little voice in her head said, Oh no? Then who opened the Chamber of Secrets and set a basilisk on the school?  
  
"I didn't mean to," she whispered, feeling ashamed. Why did she feel twelve again? She'd almost silenced the inner battles; just a whisper that she could quell with her will. But It was rising within her, excited by Nagini's presence, by that other power prowling nearer and nearer.  
  
"Do as the rat man says."  
  
Nagini had turned her head reproachfully as Ginny cowered near the door. It seemed impossible that such a noxious creature could remind her of her mother. When she didn't move, the snake seemed to sigh, and it slowly withdrew from the table, returning to its spot by the fireplace.  
  
The last thing Ginny wanted to do was obey Pettigrew or Nagini, but her thirst overpowered her fear. On trembling knees she crossed the darkened room to the table. Dizzily she drank from the goblet, rejoicing in the cold, refreshing water. It punched through her stomach, but she gulped unmindfully. The physical ache was welcome.  
  
When the goblet was empty, she eyed the other dishes uneasily. Curiosity nagged at her, but she refused to succumb to it. Water was necessary, but she could survive without anything else for awhile. Part of her knew she should keep her strength, as Pettigrew said, regardless of what plans the Death Eaters had in store for her. Weakened, she had less of a chance. Yet she couldn't bring herself to lift the silver soup cover. Her stomach ached, her head swam, and she slowly realized the snake was saying something . . .  
  
" . . . Master is coming . . . you smell of him."  
  
"I'm not hearing this, I'm not hearing this!" Ginny chanted, clamping her hands over her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, now chanting in her head to drown out her wild thoughts. Smelled of Voldemort?! How could she carry his scent? And he was coming!  
  
Then something dry yet smooth brushed her bare feet and Ginny cried out, jumping away from the snake curling around her feet.  
  
"You're not for me," Nagini hissed, circling her long, fourteen-foot body around Ginny as she shook, gripping the armchair's back. "Not yet." A cold promise.  
  
Too weak to stand, Ginny sank to the floor, sensing rather than seeing the poisonous creature encircling her without touching. The dry scales brushed along the ornamental rug, seeming to hiss along with the snake's whispering words. "There is a boy who speaks, but yet he does not. You smell of him too." A strangled sob escaped Ginny as she tucked her knees under her chin and locked her arms around her legs. She rocked back and forth as Nagini circled and circled her, filling her ears with her hissed words.  
  
"This is a nightmare, just a nightmare, I'll wake up soon, just a nightmare," she mumbled into her knees, desperately trying to ignore the sounds around her. She knew not how long she sat there, hunched and rocking, when Nagini seemed to quiver with anticipation. Noises out in the corridor, and then an excited, loving hiss.  
  
"Master's here." 


	4. Fear

A/N: I apologize for the short chapter and Chapter Three's cliffhanger, which is not resolved in this chapter. You may have noticed that I alternate between settings with each chapter. This pattern will continue, but it won't be strictly followed later in the story.  
  
I had hoped to finish this story before June 19th, but it looks as if I won't. I don't think finishing it after OotP comes out will be too much of a problem (time for JKR to contradict me completely!), so hopefully it will still be bearable to read.  
  
As always, thanks to Elanor Gamgee for noticing when my sentences don't match up. (  
  
Chapter Four  
"Fear"  
  
"Can I speak with you, er, privately, Professor?"  
  
It embarrassed Harry how tight and scratchy his voice sounded as he strained to speak calmly. He felt Sirius, Hermione, and Ron's eyes fall sharply and curiously on him, and he flushed under the scrutiny. Gulping, he kept his gaze fastened on Professor Dumbledore's narrowed eyes.  
  
"Certainly, Harry," said Dumbledore, raising his head briefly towards Sirius and Harry's friends. "Better get on with it, Sirius."  
  
Sirius muttered his assent, and Harry sensed his godfather's questioning, concerned look before the door opened with a faint draught, and Sirius ushered Ron and Hermione out of Dumbledore's office. A heavy silence followed the soft closing of the heavy door, and Harry surreptitiously wiped his perspiring hands on his robe.  
  
He felt as if he'd go everywhere at once. Such a feeling of helplessness, fury, and panic hadn't overwhelmed him since fourth year, yet it was altogether different than being tied to a grave with only Cedric's dead body to stare at. He, Harry, wasn't the one at Voldemort's mercy. It was Ginny.  
  
And it was all his fault. Of everything battling inside him for his attention, it was this acutely excruciating fact that tore at Harry's heart. Whenever he found himself collecting his raging emotions and thoughts, it was always this knowledge that severed his weak control. He had put Ginny in danger.  
  
Harry stood in Dumbledore's office, relishing and hating the patient silence all at once. It was so different from the silence that had fallen over Gryffindor Tower. Not despairing nor cautiously evasive and considerate, but simply patient and calm. He breathed in deeply, hoping the serenity would permeate his body, soothe him so he could think clearly.  
  
"Something you wanted to discuss, Harry?" inquired Dumbledore in his gentle, knowing voice that really wasn't questioning.  
  
Harry exhaled, feeling his tremulous grasp of calm slip away. Shifting uneasily under that piercing gaze, he licked his cracked and dry lips, then said, "Ginny knew this would happen."  
  
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly, gesturing towards the old, worn and cushioned chair in front of him. "Please sit, Harry. Tell me what you know."  
  
Harry nodded and obeyed, sinking into the comfortable chair but unable to relax. His knee jerked uncharacteristically, and he frowned deeply at it. Did he have absolutely no control over himself? For a moment he started to delve into his brooding turmoil, but suddenly Fawkes took to the air.  
  
The flash of crimson and gold drew Harry's eyes upwards, following the phoenix's graceful flight across the office and out of the opening and closing door. He stared at nothing for a moment. What was Fawkes doing? Harry had learned long ago that the phoenix was no ordinary bird and had some special role in the alliance against Voldemort. He swiveled around to inquire, but found Dumbledore watching him patiently but unrelentingly.  
  
He looks so old, Harry thought, again recalling the twinkling, eccentric headmaster of his younger school years. It was so disheartening . . .  
  
"Harry."  
  
Right. What I know. Harry took another deep breath intended to calm and collect himself, but all he really wanted to do was break down. Swallowing the lump lodged in his throat, he lifted his head to look directly at Dumbledore.  
  
"Ginny-" It pained him to say her name, but he duly pressed on, "-she knew something like this would happen. Back in fifth year she said something that seemed unlikely at the time, but now . . . now I'm not so sure." As he spoke, his gaze dropped to the paperweight sitting at the front of the great desk. A bumblebee. "She said . . . after that Death Eater attack in fifth year, that she wondered if Voldemort knew about the diary. I mean, about Tom Riddle using her-" Here he had to pause and quell the fury rising up within him.  
  
And that desperate, sickening fear when he saw Ginny lying unconscious and cold in the Chamber of Secrets. "Ginny! Ginny--don't be dead-please don't be dead! Ginny, please wake up!"  
  
"She won't wake."  
  
Harry shuddered. She's not dead. I would know it. Voldemort doesn't want her dead. Somehow, that wasn't comforting. Taking a shaky breath, Harry continued, aware that Dumbledore wouldn't speak until he'd said everything. "Ginny wondered what Voldemort would do if he found out about her and the diary. If he'd use her to get to-to me, or the Order . . . because he did through his memory before."  
  
He hated saying it like that, as if Ginny was so weak-minded, but they were practically her own words. He could hear her soft voice from that sunny afternoon back in fifth year, her eyes gazing anxiously and uncertainly up at him from under long eyelashes. They'd walked around the edge of the Quidditch pitch, both too restless to be confined within the castle despite the recent Death Eater attack in Hogsmeade. It had been an offensively beautiful early summer day, and only two days before the attack he'd felt certain they'd become friends too late.  
  
And now I've thrown it away again! How could I be fool enough to think I was only protecting her?  
  
Despair was drowning out Harry's words, and he put his head in his hands, trying to fight the nausea swimming in his stomach and up to his head. The floor seemed to sway and tip precariously; the blood rushed to his head.  
  
"Harry." Dumbledore. Always patiently bringing him back to reality. Harry shuddered and fought back another urge to be sick. Slowly, he raised his eyes to Dumbledore's and felt the sickness momentarily recede.  
  
"Did Miss Weasley ever say what she thought Voldemort might use her for?"  
  
"No," sighed Harry, raking his hands through his hair. He righted himself and massaged his throbbing temples. "She didn't know. At least, she didn't tell me. But . . . I think she might have had an idea." Ginny was so open and honest, yet she kept much buried deep down. He'd only reached the darkness on rare occasions, and only because that was a darkness also within him.  
  
"Do you know, Professor?" Harry asked sharply.  
  
Dumbledore shook his head slowly and sighed. "I have an idea, Harry, but I am not certain. Miss Weasley was right to suspect Voldemort would wish to exploit Tom Riddle's diary-"  
  
"I'm so stupid!" Harry suddenly burst out, rising from his seat. "It's my fault! All of it!" Infuriated and boiling, he began rampaging Dumbledore's carpet, his voice rising with each agitated step. "I gave that blasted diary back to Lucius Malfoy! Had I left it with you, Voldemort would never have gotten it back, and maybe-maybe Malfoy wouldn't have told him about it! Why was I so stupid?!"  
  
"Mr. Potter!"  
  
Harry abruptly halted his tirade. Dumbledore was standing tall and erect, looking sternly down his nose, and Harry felt his blood rush to his face, not with rage but shame. He hated losing control before Dumbledore, and his rage seeped through his toes, leaving him weak and shaky. Wordlessly he returned to his seat, sinking further down into the lumpy cushion, head in his hands again.  
  
"What do I do?" he asked croakily.  
  
"For the moment, nothing," said Dumbledore gently, sitting down again. "Except hope."  
  
Hope. Harry had clung to hope, lost it, and found it again his whole life. In the most desperate hour, something had always appeared to fill him with hope and courage. He knew he could fight without hope, fight only because it seemed the only thing he could do, but it was that hope that battled despair.  
  
But hoping didn't solve anything, not really. He could hope Ginny was alive, and he did, oh yes he did, but it did absolutely nothing for her. Wherever she was, whatever she was going through, no one was there to give her hope.  
  
Dumbledore seemed to be reading his thoughts, because he said quietly, "Harry, Miss Weasley came to me at the beginning of her fifth year saying just as much as you told me. Agreeing with her concerns, I placed a charm on her that may provide some protection against Voldemort."  
  
"What? What is it?"  
  
But Dumbledore shook his head. "Miss Weasley wished I keep this information to myself, even from you, Harry." He looked truly apologetic, but Harry couldn't stop the hurt he felt at Ginny's lack of confidence in him.  
  
A silence fell as Harry tried to think of what to say. He needed to be alone, but he hadn't been alone since that morning, when he'd been oblivious to everything but his own anguish. He wanted to grab a Time- Turner and flip all the way back to last night when he drew her away from the table. Everything would have been so different if only he'd told her the truth.  
  
The office blurred. Unaware of the moisture in his eyes, Harry reached within the folds of his robes and drew out an object from his pockets. It was a very tattered, wilted quill that had once been a luscious emerald that he self-consciously knew matched his eyes. Staring blearily at the now deplorable quill, he brushed his fingertips over the darkened feathering. Ginny's Christmas gift to him fifth year. She'd been so embarrassed and blushed as she muttered that she hadn't known what to give him "because Ron only gives you disgusting things or Quidditch stuff, and Hermione suggested books."  
  
Not even Ginny knew that he still kept the quill far after it'd been unable to write anymore. Actually, it could have been useful a little while longer, but he'd wanted to keep what he could of it.  
  
"I suggest you get some rest, Harry," interrupted Dumbledore.  
  
Harry jerked, startled out of his musings. He blinked against the wetness in his eyes, furiously realizing he must have been crying. But his cheeks weren't wet, only his eyes. Rubbing them with his fists, he nodded obediently. Good, he wanted to be alone. Away from Ron and Hermione's bleak faces and hushed whispers, their nervous, darting glances.  
  
"Allow me to escort you back to the common room."  
  
Of course he wouldn't be alone! Harry felt too weary to argue as Dumbledore placed a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder and guided him down the spiraling staircase. As the gargoyle pushed aside, Terry Boot, the Head Boy, and Susan Bones, a Hufflepuff prefect, were just coming around the corner of the corridor on their patrol.  
  
"Ah, Mr. Boot! Miss Bones!" called Dumbledore in the cheeriest voice he'd used all day. "Would you kindly escort Mr. Potter back to Gryffindor Tower?"  
  
"Yes, Professor Dumbledore," they chorused, sending Harry curious looks. Harry looked away, wanting to scream in frustration. He'd hoped Dumbledore would leave him on his own, but he should have known better. It seemed that no one trusted him not to do something drastic or foolish--like surrendering to the Death Eaters.  
  
Terry opened his mouth, as if to say, "Come along, Harry," but quickly closed it and cleared his throat. Wordlessly, Harry followed the Head Boy down the corridor, feeling like a prisoner as Susan walked on the other side.  
  
My own little prison guard, he muttered sarcastically to himself.  
  
~*~*~  
  
It was a ridiculously awkward journey back to Gryffindor Tower, but the uncomfortable silence allowed Harry to decide on a course of action. Returning to Gryffindor Tower was unthinkable to him just now; he feared he'd go mad if one more person looked his way with such polite concern. Or Hermione and Ron followed his frantic pacing with edgy eyes. He knew what they were thinking, that he would suddenly do something irrational, like rush out of the castle waving a white flag.  
  
Not that it hadn't crossed his mind . . .  
  
Harry knew plenty of empty classrooms around Hogwarts. He'd retreated to them upon several occasions, whether to escape prowling professors, Peeves, Filch, or merely to escape the crowded confines of Gryffindor Tower. Often he'd fantasized about seeking out one such vacant classroom with Ginny . . . And as he had then, he violently shook the thought away.  
  
Terry and Susan glanced nervously at Harry, but he ignored the fervently earnest looks. Perhaps it was rude not to say anything to either student, but what the heck was he supposed to do? Make small talk?  
  
"Yeah, how 'bout them, N.E.W.T.'s, eh?"  
  
He had to find a way to escape entering through the portrait hole, or else he'd be accosted without hope of escaping. But how to shake the Head Boy and a prefect? Or evade more patrolling professors and prefects?  
  
If only I had my Invisibility Cloak, he thought wistfully as they turned the last corner and the Fat Lady stood (or rather hung) guard at the end of the long corridor.  
  
Suddenly, it clicked in his mind, but he doubted it would work.  
  
Terry and Susan stopped just before the Fat Lady, who was hastily hiding her handkerchief within the folds of her pink skirt. She regarded the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff suspiciously, raising her painted eyebrows meaningfully.  
  
"Oh-er, right then," coughed Terry, flushing slightly. He gave Harry a skittering look and nod. "We'll be going then, Harry."  
  
"Yeah-bye." Susan blushed furiously, embarrassed by something.  
  
Harry managed a curt nod and watched as the two seventh-years hurried down the corridor, glancing quickly over their shoulders before turning the corner and descending the staircase.  
  
I wonder . . . Harry frowned and ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the tufts. He was alone, but where could he go without getting caught? His initial plan had been to go on in to the common room, mutter something about sleeping, and grab his Invisibility Cloak if Ron and Hermione bought the lie and stayed down below. It'd be a risk, opening the portrait hole on his own, but maybe no one would notice. Now, however, he didn't need to bother with that, unless he was planning on roaming the school. About the only corridor not patrolled, that he knew of, was the one he was standing dumbly in.  
  
"Well?" said the Fat Lady, rather impatiently.  
  
Harry glanced at the portrait wonderingly. No one was to be anywhere in the castle alone (a toilet stall or bath being the exception, of course). The Fat Lady wasn't exactly a human, but she was certainly a responsible, authoritative entity of Hogwarts. After all, she did protect almost a hundred students-when everyone actually attended Hogwarts-just behind her frame . . .  
  
"Did you forget the password, Mr. Potter?" demanded the Fat Lady irritably.  
  
"No," said Harry, hoping he didn't sound cheeky. "Sorry," he added quickly. The Fat Lady huffed and raised an eyebrow, but Harry ignored her and quickly surveyed the corridor. A corner to tuck in was ideal, but the best alcove was certainly beside the portrait.  
  
Sighing, Harry lowered himself to the floor, pressing his back against the wall and tucking his knees up, making himself as small as possible. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back until it hit the wall, and for a blissful moment, he felt nothing but relief.  
  
"Just what do you think you're doing?"  
  
But only a moment. Harry cringed against the urge to snap bitingly at the portrait, took a steady breath, and said, "Sitting. It's too loud in there," he added, hoping she'd get the hint.  
  
"Sounds rather quiet to me. You're not to be left alone, you know."  
  
"But I'm not. You're here."  
  
The Fat Lady was silent for a minute, then she finally gave a small 'humph'. "Well, it's your own fault if you're caught."  
  
Harry waited another two minutes before relaxing again. If it be could called relaxing. The brief moment of bliss had been dashed away by the irritable portrait, and everything inside him was on edge again. He tried breathing deeply, but the rush of oxygen only unsettled him further. Why couldn't he do something?!  
  
You've done enough already, haven't you? a biting voice accused. Harry sucked in sharply. Immediately he saw her before him, as he'd last seen her, trembling from his words. Vibrant coppery red locks messy from hasty attempts to pull it back while studying, soft brown eyes glistening, her face pale and pinched as her mouth quivered . . .  
  
A low moan escaped Harry. Her mouth . . . his ached for the sensation of her soft, trembling lips . . . how still she'd been, as if in disbelief, or dreaming and afraid to disrupt it . . . and then . . . No adjective he'd ever known could describe that moment when Ginny's lips had moved almost skittishly against his own.  
  
"I'm so stupid," he mumbled, rubbing his face fiercely to drive away the memory. Why oh why had he stopped it? In that pivotal instant, he'd lost control, and while drowning in that indescribable rush, it had returned like a hard smack across the face.  
  
"Harry . . ."  
  
"Goodnight, Ginny."  
  
Two nights in a row, he'd slipped away from her, misled her, and had agonized over her. No, the first night he had been truthful, more honest than perhaps ever before. It hadn't been the truth of his feelings that had condemned her, but the deception wrought of his protection.  
  
And he was deceiving himself again, he knew, unable to smother the thought any longer. Blaming himself was merely a distraction from imaging what could be happening to Ginny now.  
  
A/N: Okay okay, NOW I'll get on with Ginny meeting Voldemort. 


	5. Voldemort's Pensieve

Chapter Five  
"Voldemort's Pensieve"  
  
"Master's here."  
  
Such an excited, reverent hiss. Had she the control over herself, Ginny might have shuddered at Nagini's obvious devotion, but she felt her body and mind freeze. Time would have stood still, if not for the venomous monster coiling with anticipation at her feet, and-him. A feverish convulsion sent Ginny gasping to her knees.  
  
The room spun, Nagini circled.  
  
Voices, noises . . . out in the corridor. A frosty breath, rattling like death itself.  
  
"No," she moaned pleadingly. "Please . . ."  
  
"You silly girl! Stop your sniveling!"  
  
"NO! I will fight you, I will FIGHT you!"  
  
Cold, high laughter. "You really are a stupid, foolish girl. I've had you in my possession for almost a year. What makes you think you can fight me now?"  
  
"T-Tom . . . I c-can't . . ."  
  
"That's right, Ginny Weasley. You can't."  
  
"Y-yes I can!" Get back, you brute, she silently screamed, using all her will to shut out the chilling memories, that mocking voice, the restless presence moving inside her, trying to break free. Gulping down terrified sobs, she rose shakingly to her feet as she heard a lock turning in the door.  
  
A thunderous pounding drowned out Nagini's delighted whispers. Bright and dark colors swirled and twisted at the edge of her vision, making her dizzy as she stared painfully at the slowly turning knob. A bloodcurdling scream rose in her throat, but she couldn't take the breath to release it.  
  
Then the door opened-and everything stood perfectly still.  
  
Not a breath later, Pettigrew shuffled into the small study, perspiration dotting his bald forehead, carrying a round basin. His inept entrance was painfully obvious as Lucius Malfoy, resplendent in velvet black robes, swept through the threshold like an overenthusiastic king at his enemy's beheading. He sneered smugly at Ginny, his icy eyes sweeping belittlingly over her dirty, shivering body. Had she the nerve or foolishness, she would have kicked him hard in the shin.  
  
The image brought a small smirk to her face, but then a high, cruel voice shattered her brief moment of amusement.  
  
"I cannot begin to describe my delight in presently meeting you, Ginny Weasley."  
  
A long, formidable shadow stretched across the light from the doorway. Seeming to grow from the black silhouette, a tall, slender figure emerged, dressed in fine robes that were neither black nor gray, but somewhere in between. Spider-like, pale hands splayed out from the efficiently cut sleeves, invisible stains of blood tarnishing the porcelain white. The figure did not glide so much as slither into the room, turning with grace and snapping its fingers.  
  
Torches lighted with a roar, and Ginny saw with a horrible flash the face of Lord Voldemort.  
  
She choked on her scream. This couldn't be human, not even remotely related to anything considered close to human. Reptilian . . . a monster! A serpent's head mounted on a skeletal body dug up from a grave! Even as her very soul was repulsed, she felt an overwhelming sorrow wash over her as she stared, horrified, at this creature of evil.  
  
Tom? How could this be Tom Riddle? He had been so handsome, his features taking a likeness to Harry, so close that she had often shamefully wondered if part of her attraction had not been to Tom because he'd been so much like Harry, but that Harry had been so much like Tom.  
  
Tom . . .  
  
"Reunions are always touching," said Lord Voldemort. A cruel smile cut through his lipless mouth. "Is it not funny how we have only just met, Ginny Weasley, yet we have known each other since you were twelve and I was sixteen?"  
  
Ginny could not respond. Instead she quavered under the calculating serpent eyes that raked hungrily over her, as if able to see straight into her soul. Perhaps he can. She shuddered violently, her stomach jerking with nauseating ferocity, as if something-someone-was jumping out of her. Then it slammed into something invisible, just within her, and stumbled angrily.  
  
Swaying and clenching at her thin nightgown, Ginny gulped and sucked in a deep breath. I will fight, she told herself, fighting the conflicting revulsion and attraction roiling inside. Sick and dizzy, she felt her knees weaken as Voldmort's serpent eyes suddenly flashed and glowed, a slow, calculating smile stretching thinly across his deathly pallor.  
  
"Excellent," the dark lord whispered, taking a step closer. With that deadly grace, he reached up with one long, skeletal hand and brushed his fingertips along her cheekbone.  
  
Ginny cried out and flinched. Voldemort's fingertips were ice cold. A burning pain seared through her skin, as if the sharp tip of a knife. He slowly stroked down the side of her face, caressing her. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she felt that eager presence rise again within her, summoned to Voldemort's touch.  
  
"S-stop," she pleaded, quavering and struggling for control.  
  
Voldemort smiled cruelly, bringing his fingers under her chin, his glittering red eyes piercing through her. "Yes, I do believe this will be even quicker than I anticipated." Continuing to stare her down, he spoke to the two wizards gathered behind him. "Lucius, I had questioned your choice of lending my diary to, but now I see it was an excellent choice. She will not be difficult to persuade."  
  
Had Ginny not been paralyzed with fear, she would have spit in Voldemort's snake-like face.  
  
"Meekly spirited," Voldemort commented mildly, sounding absently amused. He withdrew his hand from her face and took a step back, turning slightly to include Pettigrew and Lucius Malfoy. "Lucius," he commanded. "I see no cause for more delay. The diary."  
  
Lucius stepped forward and withdrew from the rich folds of his robes a very tattered and ruined book. For just a second, Ginny wanted to laugh with relief. It wasn't Tom Riddle's diary at all, but a severely damaged fabrication. After all, she would have never allowed for such a hole to rip through the cover and pages, nor for its pages to browned and blackened by whatever stained it.  
  
"My lord," Malfoy whispered gravely, presenting the diary to Voldemort in his opened palms.  
  
However, Voldemort merely peered inquisitively, fondly, at the decrepit object, and Ginny sensed an underlying anger that stirred the entity within her. And a fear. With a flash, as if she were back to the nightmare in the Chamber of Secrets, she saw the diary laying in a pool of blood, the basilisk blood, dripping with venom and Harry's own blood, resting beside it. The diary that had been passed from Harry's hands to Dumbledore, where she had believed it safe until Harry had confessed to returning it to Lucius Malfoy . . .  
  
"What do you think Mr. Malfoy did with it?"  
  
"Burned it, hopefully."  
  
"I wish Dumbledore had kept it."  
  
"I'm sorry, Ginny."  
  
"Oh well. Nothing will probably come of it, anyway."  
  
"Does it still affect you, Ginny Weasley?" Voldemort asked suddenly, swiveling around to stare hard at the trembling girl. His lipless mouth stretched thinly again. "Does it torment you to know that my simple memory- a mere trifling of my power-could possess you, make you set a basilisk on other students? How could a Gryffindor-so brash and brave and strong-be so weak? Very shameful, indeed."  
  
Ginny lifted her chin and bit down hard on the inside of her cheek as Voldemort slithered towards her again, taking delight in her obvious pain. Stern and exasperated voices swirled around her head: Dumbledore telling her that far great wizards had been hoodwinked by Dumbledore, Ron and Hermione elaborating on their inability to resist Imperius, Harry defending her, Ginny's elation at triumphing and resisting Tom Riddle in her dreams . . .  
  
"Very shameful, very weak," repeated Voldemort, cutting through the comfort of the voices.  
  
"I-I'm not weak," she croaked. But she felt it. Whatever anyone said, Voldemort was right.  
  
"You are, Ginny Weasley," said Voldemort almost soothingly, as if coaxing a toddler. "When my memory was possessing your soul, I was mere vapor. Vapor. And you still could not resist my power." Another slow, calculating smile crawled across his face. "Nor can you resist it now. I can feel it, just as you can," he said in a lower voice, circling her. "When I was only a presence, I attached myself to another life form, like a leech. Animals, snakes, a Hogwarts professor . . . all very easy prey, easily manipulated and drained. With each I grew stronger, just as my embedded youth consumed you, Ginny Weasley."  
  
The dark lord came around to face her again, so close that her skin scintillated, as if reaching out for him. Voldemort lowered his serpent head down to hers. "And if I'm not mistaken, my own Ginny, you are still very much possessed. Tom Riddle's captive, his prey. My captive, my prey."  
  
"No!" Ginny jerked violently away, nearly tripping over Nagini. The great snake hissed warningly and recoiled, but Ginny barely noticed as a sharp, fiery pain shot through her body. With a cry, she fell to her knees, gasping for breath as the pain resided.  
  
A high, cold laugh reached her ears, as if an echo from the past.  
  
"Oh, I do appreciate a show of rebellion," chuckled Voldemort, looking down at her condescendingly. "Come now. Stand."  
  
Before she even realized it, she'd risen to her feet. Only then did she consider disobeying, but it was too late: Voldemort and Malfoy were enjoying the satisfaction of her unchallenged servitude. Not again, she swore herself, Next time I'll resist. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself and raised her chin. Strangely, she felt her inner wards against the shadow enforced, as if the shock of pain had stiffened her determination.  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
Voldemort's smile slithered away, and he narrowed his eyes to slits. "You, Ginny Weasley. And what you hold captive inside you." He stepped forward and Ginny recoiled, bumping into the small table with the tray of soup Pettigrew had brought.  
  
"Why?" she asked before she could stop herself.  
  
Again, that awful stretch of the lips, so scathing and merciless. "It is common knowledge, Miss Weasley, that Lord Voldemort's ultimate ambition has been to seek immortality. A commendable career goal, you must admit. I have used various methods, from unicorn's blood to the oldest of Druid myths, but each of those required incessant repercussions or were unstable.  
  
"I soon realized that the old methods were useless. If complete immortality had never been achieved before, there was no method or spell- yet created-and I would have to devise my own."  
  
The Dark Lord paused and strode over to Lucius, nearly touching the poisoned diary covered in dried blood and venom. "Although confident in my theory and ability at sixteen, I had not been able to test the first step," said Voldemort, as if telling Ginny a bedtime story. "I did not even know about my diary's success until a little less than two years ago, when Lucius here regaled me with his fouled but commendable attempt to return me to power.  
  
"But-there was much missing in his witness."  
  
Ginny was again assaulted by Voldemort's closeness as those nefariously glinting eyes raked over her weakening body.  
  
"Now," he said slowly, "for your account."  
  
He snapped his fingers and a wave of cold despair swept over Ginny in a surging wave. A fog of pain and disbelief, shock and betrayal, closed around her. Voldemort disappeared from her view and a shadow of desolation blocked the torchlight and something unearthy and ghostlike glided into the small study, its raspy breathing rattling within Ginny's very soul.  
  
A dementor.  
  
"You know what I'm going to do for you, little Ginny? When your Harry Potter finds you here, dead, I will tell him everything."  
  
"No! Please!"  
  
"Everything. What will he think of sad little Ginny when he knows it was she who set a monster on the little Mudbloods? When he realizes it was you who helped bring the murderer of his parents back to power? Tsk, tsk . . . At least you won't be alive to see it."  
  
"Dementors have such a wonderful affect on people, do they not?" Voldemort's merciless voice brought Ginny sluggishly from the fog and chill, but she seemed to hover just behind a thin veil of grayness. "Since it can be assumed that you wouldn't be willfully obliging to my little experiment, I decided to bring a little persuasion for you."  
  
Ginny swayed on her feet.  
  
Tom's diary in Harry's hand. Harry soaked in blood and grime. His awkward hands fiery hot on her frozen body, helping her to her feet as she blubbered. The whispering snaking after her as Harry urged her out of the chamber.  
  
"Wormtail, the basin."  
  
Pettigrew stumbled forward with the basin, ashen gray as if affected by rattling despair in the air around the Dementor. Ginny vaguely wondered how anguished the man was, now undoubtedly reliving the moment he'd betrayed Lily and James Potter to Voldemort. The diminished man convulsed as he settled the large basin on the table beside Ginny, withdrawing as quickly as possible, a sniffle reaching her ears.  
  
Curious despite the cold and herself, Ginny peered through the fog into the basin, marveling at the liquid content. It was silver with the appearance of mercury but lighter, swirling as if propelled by a gentle wind.  
  
"Do you know what a Pensieve is, Ginny Weasley?" said Voldemort from beside the Dementor.  
  
She glanced unwillingly at the Dark Lord. While everything in the room seemed to wilt and shrivel, Voldemort appeared to be glowing with the depleting power. Red slits penetrated the thickening fog, keeping her from drowning.  
  
"I've read about them," she said thickly, "but I've never seen one."  
  
The red slits began to glow, gliding through the fog, nearer and nearer, until Voldemort's white face seemed to be made of the fog itself, the gray wisps licking his sharp, hollow cheeks. Then white spiders appeared on either side of her peripheral visions, closing in. She felt a brief touch of cold on her temples, followed by an intense pressure.  
  
She screamed. An unearthly scream that filled her ears, mind, and body-the scream she had been holding ever since Voldemort entered the room. Blood flowed down her throat from the sheer rawness of it, coating her lungs as pure agony ripped through her, shattering any trace of thought, reason, or sense. Black, searing pain. Carving, white-hot stabs of pain.  
  
And then she knew nothing.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Gradually, the excruciating pain began to abate, fading to a dull throbbing in her every nerve. Vaguely, through a dim, nauseated haze, Ginny was aware of muffled voices and movements around her. Eyes squeezed tight as she gasped for breath, she knelt, clutching her stomach as her head bowed, forehead touching the rough tapestry rug. A faint scratching circled her, and the practical, unfazed portion of her mind carefully noted Nagini's circling.  
  
"Brilliant," the high voice breathed from somewhere above and within her. "How . . . extraordinary-and so convenient."  
  
"What is it, my lord?" Sleazy, curious.  
  
Voldemort did not answer, but Ginny and Nagini felt his scintillating excitement and sick delight. The air crackled with it, causing the hairs on the back of Ginny's neck to raise. Her head pounded against the floor, and she wanted desperately to retch, but she felt too weak to move. She felt raped, as if someone had forced himself inside her and taken something.  
  
"No," she croaked suddenly, panic rising in her throat with the bile. Nearly sobbing with pain and fear, she groped desperately inside, searching for that stalking presence. It jerked through her, and she felt both relieved and sickened.  
  
Voldemort had not taken her Tom.  
  
"Most interesting," Voldemort's voice floated down to her, curling itself around her shrunken body. "My my . . . I love picking your brain, Ginny Weasley, it's so enlightening."  
  
"May I see, my lord?"  
  
"Not now, Lucius."  
  
Ginny sucked in deeply, smelling the earthy, cold scent of the stone beneath the rug. The fibers scratched at her face, but she paid no heed. The dull throbbing continued to torment, but she was suddenly acutely aware of everything around her and what had just happened.  
  
Nagini circling around her, just below her master's feet; Voldemort was standing at the small table, searching the silvery strands of the Pensieve, where he had just ransacked Ginny's mind for her memories of Tom Riddle and- no doubtly-Harry.  
  
"Harry," she whispered into the rug. All of her memories, thoughts, and emotions for Harry were swirling, stolen, in the basin under Voldemort's rapacious eye, defenseless against his voracity. Her love and her sorrow . . . their one kiss . . .  
  
"A most intriguing revelation, but . . . you are withholding the information I had requested, insolent girl." Voldemort's inquisitive muttering suddenly turned ice cold. "Lucius! Get her off the floor!"  
  
Instantly Ginny was yanked up from her crouch by a cold, stiff pair of hands. The darkened world tilted around her, blurred, and then came slowly into focus. She blinked and gulped for air, trying to collect herself as Voldemort's sinister face became her whole vision.  
  
"Would you like to know what just happened, Ginny Weasley?" asked Voldemort with controlled calm. "I just searched your mind. As I told you before, I wanted information on the diary, on my youthful self. What do you supposed I found?"  
  
Ginny said nothing, but felt part of her sigh with relief. It worked, she realized, holding back a gratified smile. Dumbledore's barrier charm had succeeded, and Tom Riddle and the Chamber of Secrets were locked safely away inside her, unreachable.  
  
"You smile, so you must know," spat the dark lord. His blood red eyes narrowed. "No doubt that meddlesome wizard Dumbledore suspected you might become useful to me. Whatever magic he worked on you, Ginny Weasley, will not last!" Voldemort lifted an emaciated hand to her face, then slowly drew in back into a fist. "I know how to break a being, twist and crush it until it begs, pleads, and blubbers every sin, every secret . . . until they plead for death!"  
  
Behind her Wormtail whimpered, and Ginny fought the urge to turn away from Voldemort's twisted, gleeful face. He burned with fervor before returning to his deceptive calm.  
  
A queer smile spread his lips. "Nevermind, you will tell me soon enough. I may not have seen my beloved Chamber, but I did see your beloved."  
  
"You-" she jerked against Lucius Malfoy's hold, but the wizard held firm.  
  
Voldemort's smile widened as he pressed his spider-like fingers together at the tips. "Oh yes, Ginny Weasley, I saw everything."  
  
"What did you see, my lord?" inquired Malfoy, a grinning sneer in his greasy voice.  
  
"Why, who our dear captive has been in love with for six years, Lucius!"  
  
Ginny almost vomited. That jeering, teasing tone sounded sickeningly like Fred or George at the dinner table, flicking beans at her while she blushed furiously and tried to avoid Harry's gaze. Anger boiled inside, filling her blood with adrenalin so that she might leap in hot rage at Voldemort's gloating face, but she was frozen in Malfoy's iron grasp.  
  
"And who may this be, my lord?" Lucius played along, clearly enjoying the game as much as Voldemort.  
  
"Why, none other than Harry Potter!" But he didn't stop there. Stepping back, Voldemort suddenly whirled his long, slender arms around, gesticulating in mockery. "He's so brave, so courageous and modest. Not only that, but he's a talented Seeker, and never teased her even though her numerous brothers did! His eyes are beautiful, and when he smiles -Lucius, did I tell you about his smile?"  
  
"I believe not, my lord," encouraged Malfoy.  
  
"It reaches his eyes-but no, Harry Potter hasn't truly smiled in ages."  
  
"How tragic."  
  
"Poor famous Harry Potter," Voldemort continued, not at all contrite or regretful. "It is not his fame that makes him so deserving of Miss Weasley's undying love, but his kindness, his humor, and his loyalty! Lucius, she does not love him for being Harry Potter, but for being Harry-"  
  
"Stop it!" cried Ginny, unable to stop herself. "Stop it!"  
  
She was viciously jerked back by Malfoy, and Voldemort was suddenly pressing his hideous face near. Ginny fell silent, unable to speak even if she'd had the nerve. Silent tears cascaded down her face as Voldemort reached up and brushed her tangled locks of hair almost tenderly away from her face. She gasped at the icy, painful contact and turned her face away.  
  
The dark lord chuckled, and she felt one single fingernail tip trace from her cheekbone and along her jawline. "You are a foolish girl to fight Lord Voldemort," he whispered. "Your love for your beloved Harry will not save you, nor him. Soon I will be immortal, and all those who fail to worship me will die.  
  
"You have a choice, Ginny Weasley," Voldemort continued in an almost soothing voice, touching one of her long coppery locks. "You can feebly and fatally remain obstinate, or you can give me what I want and live prosperously."  
  
With courage she didn't really feel, Ginny turned to gaze the dark lord in the eye. "I will give you nothing. I'm not a traitor."  
  
Voldemort smirked. "Brave words. But you forget-you set the basilisk on the school, you gave yourself to the Heir of Slytherin."  
  
The dark lord stepped away from her, drawing his wand from within the folds of his robes. He stood erect and formidable above her, glowing with anticipation. "Crucio."  
  
Everything exploded in white-hot pain worse than anything Ginny had ever felt. Every nerve screamed from the torture, as if uncomprehending the excruciating agony.  
  
Then, quite suddenly, it stopped.  
  
Ginny sagged against Lucius Malfoy, held up by his hard grip. The explosive pain resided quickly, but it left a prickling heat behind, reminding her exactly how it felt. Her vision was blurred by tears, but she saw the luminous eyes very clearly.  
  
"You have not yet begun to imagine the ways I will . . . persuade you, Ginny Weasley," said Voldemort, his voice harsh and high. "The pain you just felt was mild to what I can do. Remember it, feel it, revel in it."  
  
She sensed him draw nearer, and his voice was much closer and only marginally softer. "You can save yourself the torture now. Give me what I want, and you will be free. You do not want to feel the full blast of Cruciatus, as your beloved Harry Potter did."  
  
Ginny stared down at her feet, trembling in her misery, sucking in small, shallow breaths, wanting to fall to the hard floor and never rise again. Hot tears poured down her face as her starved body quaked with the remnant of the curse.  
  
"I can feel it, you know I can. It is pointless to hide it from me. All you have to do is say yes, and I will relieve you of the torment. You will be free."  
  
Free. The word hung in the air between them, waiting for Ginny to grasp it. She stared unblinkingly into space, fighting the temptation. No, she could never betray Harry, it was him talking inside her, and her ravaged body begging for mercy. She could never be free of Tom Riddle, no matter what Voldemort said, because part of her was now Tom Riddle. If she gave Tom to Voldemort, she would be surrendering herself.  
  
I surrendered once, I will not do it again!  
  
Ginny slowly lifted her head, placing her weight firmly on her feet, standing on shaky lands, pretending Malfoy was preventing her from collapsing.  
  
"No."  
  
For a moment, Voldemort said nothing. Then he raised his wand and Lucius released her.  
  
"Crucio!"  
  
Ginny never felt her body hit the stone floor. 


	6. Another Disappearance

A/N: Well! Although Book 5 is here, and JKR cruelly disposed of Someone, I'm still going to finish "Captive." It thrills me to no end to see that JKR included the sort of mind-reading and possessing that I've been wrapping this story around; she gave it a name and put Harry in the plight. Hopefully I can keep all my plans straight from hers, so as not to confuse the story.  
  
I apologize profusely to Ginny Weasley, who has been sending nasty little spiders into my room as revenge for her torture in this story.  
  
Chapter Six  
  
"Another Disappearance"  
  
Early mornings were always a boring, uneventful time to be the sentry of Gryffindor Tower, and the Fat Lady usually enjoyed a pleasant doze just before the very few early risers wakened her from her morning nap. In past years she was interrupted by flushing Gryffindors returning from a midnight tryst in an unused classroom, but this year it had been different.  
  
The Fat Lady had become bored with her quiet watches, and she had been secretly pleased that Mr. Potter had trusted her enough to keep vigil while he avoided the Gryffindors on the other side of her frame. However, he had grumpily fallen asleep, and now she was left with nothing to do.  
  
But she kept her vigil.  
  
It was peeking into the very earliest of morning hours, usually when the lovebirds tiptoed down the corridor, when Potter stirred.  
  
"No . . . Ginny," he murmured, a slight vibration in the wall alerting the Fat Lady to the boy's twitching and shifting. "You!"  
  
The portrait tried to lean out of her frame, but it was impossible, as she very well knew. And she didn't dare travel to the next frame to fully see Potter. Flustered, the Fat Lady stilled her body and the rustling of her pink silk dress. For a moment it seemed as if the boy had quieted and returned to sleep, but then he let out an angry, incoherent cry and thumped hard against the wall.  
  
"Now, really!" exclaimed the Fat Lady. "Mr. Potter, I think you should wake up now-"  
  
"Don't! No . . . Ginny!"  
  
"Mr. Potter!"  
  
A sharp, hissing gasp escaped from the restless body below her, and the Fat Lady glanced hesitatingly towards the closest portrait of a castle hall. Did she dare . . .? Then Potter seemed to quiet and she allowed herself to relax. But then a sound erupted from down below, like an animal being tortured. Suddenly Potter rolled away from the wall, far enough for the Fat Lady to clearly see him.  
  
He was rigid, a vein bulging along his pale neck, and his face was grotesquely contorted. Horrified, the Fat Lady stared as the seventh year's mouth opened wide in a soundless scream. His face was red. She was certain he wasn't breathing. He lay there, twitching and screaming silently, until the Fat Lady couldn't stand it any longer.  
  
"Mr. Potter!" she shouted, her voice shrill. "Mr. Potter, WAKE UP!"  
  
And still he convulsed on the floor, bending with unnatural rigidity, then snapping into a fetal position before snapping back in an arch. What if he wasn't dreaming, but was being cursed?  
  
"HELP! Professor McGonagall-Dumbledore-GRYFFINDORS!"  
  
A stampede of footsteps sounded behind the portrait hole just before the Fat Lady was thrown wide open, nearly smacking into the adjoining wall where Potter had been sleeping peacefully. She heard the bewildered and frightened exclamations as Gryffindors poured into the corridor. With a disgruntled huff, she swung herself halfway closed, seeing a blur of pajamas and dressing gowns.  
  
"Harry!" shrieked the Head Girl, her bushy hair wild as she pushed bodily through a wall of burly fifth years. "Stand back-I'm-oh never mind! Harry! Back away!"  
  
"Stand back, everyone!" the Fat Lady hollered, wanting to see what was happening to Potter. She had to shout three more times before everyone had obediently backed away to reveal Granger and Weasley kneeling beside the tightly curled body of Potter. His eyes were squeezed tight shut, but the Fat Lady didn't know if he was faking it or not. At least he was breathing now, but only in shallow, ragged breaths. The Granger girl was stroking his sweaty fringe off his forehead, revealing his vividly red scar.  
  
"Ron," she whispered, and the boy nodded, visibly gulping.  
  
"What is going on?"  
  
A simultaneous gasp erupted from the Gryffindors as Professor McGonagall came briskly up the corridor, Headmaster Dumbledore on her heels. McGonagall's graying hair floated around her in wisps like a specter, her night bonnet dangling by the bow around her throat. Dumbledore's usual hat was replaced by a ridiculous purple nightcap with a gigantic bauble banging rhythmically against the back of his head.  
  
"What's all this?" McGonagall demanded, gesturing at Potter and then the Fat Lady. Without missing a beat, she waved her finger authoritatively over the Gryffindors. "All of you-to bed! Anyone loitering will lose ten points for Gryffindor!"  
  
The Fat Lady sighed as her frame was abusively swung open. When she finally closed, she found Granger and Weasley unmoved. Potter's eyes were open and he'd uncurled his thin body, but he seemed only capable of sitting up. The seventeen-year-old sat in the middle of the corridor, furiously rubbing his forehead and trembling. His once fevered skin was now ghostly pale.  
  
"What happened, Harry?" questioned Dumbledore gently. "A nightmare? A vision?"  
  
Potter nodded but didn't raise his head. Instead, he seemed to recoil and hunch more into himself. After a full minute, he took a deep, steadying breath.  
  
"It was Voldemort, sir," he said hoarsely, "and . . . and Ginny."  
  
Beside Potter, Weasley sucked in a deep breath and swayed, and Grange's body stiffened.  
  
"S-she's alive," said Potter. He paused, as if fighting with himself. Finally he said, "Voldemort used Cruciatus."  
  
Weasley let out a strangled sound and whirled around, digging one fist into his palm.  
  
"Is there anything else you can tell me, Harry?"  
  
Another pause as Potter rubbed his scar. "It's fading . . . I think they were in a house, a big house, but I don't know how big. Wormtail was there, and Nagini-Voldemort's pet, and Lucius Malfoy." Potter's thin body shuddered and he rocked back and forth once before whispering, "A dementor was there, I remember the cold . . . and its breathing."  
  
"Can you remember anything that was said?"  
  
Potter thought for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry, Professor, I can't remember."  
  
But even the Fat Lady could tell he was holding something back. Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall exchanged looks that mirrored the glance between Granger and Weasley. Potter had already dropped his chin, one hand raking madly through his disheveled hair. The Fat Lady pursed her lips and stared at Dumbledore expectantly, hoping he would pursue the matter further.  
  
To her astonishment, Dumbledore gracefully knelt down on one knee, and with a long finger, tilted Potter's face towards his. The Fat Lady shuddered at the gentle but piercing gaze, not for a moment envying the young man under scrutiny.  
  
Potter took a shuddering breath, his shoulders rising and falling under his robes. "He . . . he used a dementor on her, sir." The boy was trembling again, but the Fat Lady could not decide if it was with rage or fear or both. "Voldemort's using a bloody dementor on her!"  
  
McGonagall and Granger gasped, each bringing a hand to their gaping mouths; Weasley made a choking noise and somehow grew paler. Dumbledore, on the other hand, only looked grimmer and rose to his full height, leaving Potter to huddle at his feet. One long fingered hand gave Potter's shoulder a squeeze before disappearing inside Dumbledore's robes.  
  
"I must contact the Order," he said quietly, not a hint of panic in his voice. The Fat Lady recalled how calm and even Dumbledore had been after she'd been attacked by Sirius Black. "Harry, Ron, Hermione-you will all return to your dormitories and return to classes as usual tomorrow." He held up a hand to quell any protest as three teenage heads swung towards him. "I will inform you when I find it best. You three have been tremendously brave and helpful in the past, but we cannot be reckless. More than Ginny's life is at stake."  
  
Potter and Weasley gave startled, angry protests, but Dumbledore gave them a sharp look. "Miss Weasley's life is as precious as each of yours and is very valuable to Voldemort. Stay in the castle. Good night."  
  
The Fat Lady stared after the retreating backs of Dumbledore and McGonagall, the Transfiguration professor glancing back at the frozen trio of friends before disappearing into the shadows.  
  
A long silence was interrupted by Granger. "I'm surprised he didn't escort us into the common room. I mean-" but then she stopped. Potter and Weasley were motionless for another minute, and then Potter seemed to jerk sluggishly to life. Once he was on his feet, each of his friends put an arm around him, and the Fat Lady reluctantly closed the portrait hole as they obediently returned to the common room.  
  
~*~*~  
  
The Gryffindor common room was unusually crowded when Harry, Ron, and Hermione returned, but it was unnervingly quiet. Harry kept his eyes fastened to the scarlet, ornamental rug as he allowed his friends to steer him to their private corner. He felt Hermione's arm slip from around his waist and her voice resounded sharply, however hoarsely, through the common room.  
  
"It's past curfew! Gryffindors to bed! The last one in here loses five points!"  
  
"I guess that's us then," whispered Ron from Harry's right.  
  
Peering from underneath his fringe, Harry saw the habitual scramble towards the two staircases, but it was oddly slow and half-hearted. When the common room had cleared, Hermione's forceful hands-on-her-hips-Head Girl stance slumped and she turned back to Harry and Ron, her face ashen and her eyes bright.  
  
"Harry," she said softly, sinking into an armchair, clasping her hands in her lap.  
  
"I can't remember anything else," he said, which was true. Except that he could still feel the agony of Cruciatus and see Voldemort's glowing red eyes. He shuddered and struggled to even his breathing, hoping to fight off the tears he felt at the corners of his eyes. Ginny!  
  
"She's alive," mumbled Ron after a moment. "She's still alive."  
  
"That's right," said Hermione, lifting her head. Harry recognized that tone. "And although Dumbledore said we had to go to classes and stay in the castle, we can still help her."  
  
Ron let out a snort. "How? By going to the library?"  
  
Hermione sniffed. "Yes." She turned to Harry, who was giving her an incredulous look. "Harry, what did you and Dumbledore talk about?"  
  
Sighing wearily, Harry recalled his conversation with Dumbledore, wondering if it really had been only a few hours ago. He faltered when he explained that Ginny had wanted it kept secret-even from him. When he'd finished, Hermione was searching her pockets for a quill and spare parchment.  
  
"We can go down to the library after breakfast just before class and get started," she was saying as she frowned at her quill tip. No ink. "Dumbledore said it was a protective charm, right?" Harry nodded. "It was a simple one, but you don't have any idea which one?" Harry shook his head no. "Well, we'll just have to do some research."  
  
"How is that going to help?"  
  
"At least we'll know, right? And we'll know how to get around it-"  
  
"Maybe You-Know-Who has a library as well-"  
  
"Ron! Just let me finish." Hermione pushed her bushy hair impatiently away from her face and straightened her shoulder, as if about to tackle a tricky Arithmancy problem. Harry marveled at his friend. How could she approach this as they'd always done before? Ginny wasn't the Philosopher's Stone or the Heir of Slytherin or a Triwizard task. She was more than some prize, legend, or challenge!  
  
Harry glared at Hermione, but then immediately softened his look. He knew she didn't mean it a she'd taken it. Suddenly Harry found it comforting that someone had a little control.  
  
"We're not just researching for the spell," said Hermione. "We're going to try and figure out Voldemort's plan. Why does he have Ginny? What attempts there have been towards immortality, the means used, which ones were the most successful-"  
  
Ron reached over and covered her mouth with his hand. "Okay, okay, we get it! We'll go the moment we can." Hermione nodded and he dropped his hand, but not before giving one of her frizzy curls a tug. She smiled softly at him. Harry had to turn away.  
  
Silence had fallen over them again when Ron said, "Strange, isn't it?"  
  
"What's strange?" asked Hermione.  
  
"Ginny-I mean, that she knew. Harry said she thought maybe You-Know- Voldemort-would want her for something . . ." Ron swallowed noticeably, then doggedly continued. "You know, sometimes I think she knows a lot more than she lets on-no, don't give me that look, Hermione! Just if she knew about this, maybe she didn't get over the Chamber of Secrets?"  
  
Harry's mouth fell open in astonishment. Could Ron really have thought that? That Ginny was completely unscathed by Tom Riddle's possession? Sure, she'd put up a convincing front, but Harry had noticed incidences before he'd become her friend that had suggested otherwise.  
  
Ron must have read his and Hermione's stares, because he said quickly, "I mean, I know she had nightmares for awhile and had a phobia of diaries and places underground, but I thought . . . she'd seemed alright now, you know?"  
  
Hermione let out a long sigh and shook her head. "She is alright, Ron. But that doesn't necessarily mean there wasn't some sort of lasting effect." She glanced at Harry, who had buried his hands in his hair. "Like Harry's scar still hurts, and, until fourth year, Voldemort couldn't touch him."  
  
"So you're saying that there might be some-some Tom Riddle left in Ginny?" exclaimed Ron, eyes wide.  
  
Harry clenched his fists, capturing tufts of hair in his grasp. It had plagued his mind, but he had valiantly tried to dismiss it.  
  
"You can speak Parseltongue, Harry, because Lord Voldemort can speak Parseltongue. Unless I'm much mistaken, he transferred some of his powers to you the night he gave you that scar."  
  
What had transferred to Ginny? Harry wondered. The protection his mother had placed on him had made it painful for Voldemort to touch him, but it had been dissolved by Harry's own blood. Could Dumbledore's protection dissipate with Ginny's blood? Why did Voldemort need Ginny? Did she have some power of his that he'd lost the night he used Avada Kedavra on Harry?  
  
Although he didn't want to voice his thoughts, Harry interrupted Hermione's claim that Ron was "pathetically unobservant" and "very insensitive." These would be things they would need to look up when the library opened later in the morning. Hermione had to run up to her dormitory for her ink bottle to make her list.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Harry's eyes were heavy when the first Gryffindors began to trickle down to the Great Hall for breakfast. He and Ron quickly changed into fresh clothes, grabbed their bags and books, and then joined Hermione down in the common room before heading down to breakfast.  
  
The Great Hall was cautiously quiet with hissing whispers and darting looks when they entered. Avoiding everyone's gaze, Harry sank reluctantly onto the bench, not in the least hungry. It was a Monday and he had double Charms, which was better than Thursday afternoon where he had double Potions, but the thought didn't cheer him.  
  
"Maybe we'll have a review over Protection Charms," said Ron as he pushed his eggs around his plate.  
  
Hermione shook her head. "We did those in fifth year, remember?"  
  
Ron rolled his eyes but said nothing. Harry stared down at his toast, feeling nauseated at the very thought of food. His stomach was empty, but he didn't feel hungry. Was Ginny getting any food, or were they starving her? He gripped his fork tightly in his fist, feeling anger and despair rise within him. Desperate to have someone evil to glare fiercely at, he looked across the Great Hall at Draco Malfoy.  
  
Except Malfoy wasn't there.  
  
Harry raised his head and cast his eyes over the whole of the Slytherin table, and then the Great Hall. Draco Malfoy's pale, rat-like face was nowhere to be seen, and nearly everyone was now eating breakfast. He gazed back at the Slytherin's usual spot, but only Crabbe and Goyle were there, flanking Malfoy's vacant seat and looking very confused and lost.  
  
"Ron," Harry hissed. "Look."  
  
Ron followed his gaze and swore softly. "The git probably knows better than to show his ugly face around here."  
  
Hermione had taken three bites of toast, but looked sick as well, and dropped her toast. "Come on," she said, tugging on their robes. "Getting angry isn't going to help Ginny. Let's get to the library."  
  
Exchanging dark looks, Harry and Ron gathered their bags and followed Hermione out of the Great Hall.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Concentrating in classes was impossible. Professor Flitwick did not comment when Harry and Ron failed to perform their Appearance Charms, but awarded ten points to Gryffindor when Hermione convinced the entire class that she was Madam Pince scolding Ron about the condition of his returned books.  
  
Once they were released from Charms, Harry, Ron, and Hermione bolted their food before hurrying to the library. Harry noticed that Malfoy was once again absent. While gulping down his milk, he pondered about bluntly asking Crabbe and Goyle where the git was, but, as Hermione had pointed out, they probably didn't know. Their dull, tiny eyes kept darting anxiously around the corridors like lost little pups.  
  
"This only proves that Malfoy's behind it!" hissed Ron as they entered the quiet, empty library. "His dear Death Eater father probably summoned him!"  
  
Hermione sighed as they set their things down on their usual table in a secluded corner. Madam Pince was shelving books just three shelves down, her mouth pressed in a thin line as if expecting them to begin shouting at any moment.  
  
"We don't know for sure if Malfoy has actually left Hogwarts," she whispered, pulling out her ink bottle and quill. "He could be sick, or just avoiding people. Everyone knows Lucius Malfoy is a Death Eater, and now everyone knows about," Hermione paused as her voice hitched, "-about Ginny."  
  
Harry mimicked Hermione's movements as she and Ron argued over Malfoy's obvious guilt. He was inclined to agree with Ron that Malfoy had obviously rendezvoused with the Death Eaters in the Forbidden Forest overnight, but he was used to Hermione trying to be objective. It was comforting, even if often ridiculous. Harry knew she didn't really believe Malfoy had nothing to do with Ginny's kidnapping; Ron knew it too, but he probably argued to keep himself from imagining what was happening to Ginny.  
  
"Well, I'm sure Dumbledore knows," Hermione said briskly, drawing the argument to a close. "We can't do anything about Malfoy right now. What we can do is find out what spell Dumbledore used on Ginny and what Voldemort is up to."  
  
"Does world domination ring a bell?" Ron muttered, pushing his chair back and rising.  
  
Hermione pursed her lips but said nothing. Instead, she unfolded a parchment from her pocket and laid it down at the center of the table. "These are books that Professor Flitwick has had us use for research in the past. Ancient Spells for Modern Magic was just published last year. It has the Fidelius Charm, Harry."  
  
"We know it's not Fidelius," said Ron, shaking his head.  
  
"It's not the only spell in the book."  
  
"I'll go get it," Harry said quickly.  
  
Hermione followed him into the Charms section with her list, murmuring to herself as she brushed the tip of her quill against the titles on the thick binds of the books. Ron, on the other hand, randomly pulled a book off a shelf, glanced at the title, and then opened the cover to read the index. Harry half smiled as he glanced at his friend. It had taken five years for Ron to listen to Hermione's huffs before he ever read an index.  
  
Returning to his own task, Harry searched the shelves for Ancient Spells for Modern Magic, wondering how long it would take to find Ginny's protection spell, and how that would help her. It wouldn't, not really, but as Hermione had said, it would help him.  
  
He had just pulled the book-scarlet with gold etchings-when Ron suddenly exclaimed, "Hey! Death Do Part: Methods for Reaching Immortality!"  
  
Harry and Hermione rushed over to where Ron was holding a heavy, antiquated tome covered with deep black velvet.  
  
"And it's not in the restricted section?" wondered Hermione, voicing Harry's own question. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as she reached out to touch the soft cover where the calligraphic letters glittered in the same green that flashed through his nightmares. "I don't think I've ever seen it here before."  
  
"And you know every book in the library, of course."  
  
"Ron, I'm being serious. This doesn't look like it's been used much, but it definitely isn't new. Here-" Hermione moved her hand to the edge of the cover to open the book.  
  
Harry held his breath, feeling every muscle in his body tense. The large, flat slab extended out to reveal parchment hardly smudged with ink or tattered from use. It had the look of a book used with only the most meticulous, reverent care. On the left side was a small list of students who had checked out the book. The heading read Restricted Section: By Permission of Professor Only! Only two names were listed. Liam Colfer of 5 May, 1959, had been the last to read it. The first-  
  
"Tom Riddle!"  
  
Harry didn't know who'd gasped the name, but it echoed in his ears. He stared at the carefully written name, suddenly seeing the same curves and angles forming other words, words from the past. Taking a deep breath, Harry stepped back from his friends, unable to move his eyes from the inscription.  
  
"Well," muttered Ron, "I guess we're on the right track."  
  
~*~*~  
  
Care of Magical Creatures was no longer conducted outside. At the beginning of the year, Harry had been surprised to learn that the Hogwarts grounds had an old stable built near the boat and greenhouses. In all the times he had explored the grounds, he had never noticed the stone building, which seemed to be made of the earth and castle. It was covered in overgrowth, but inside it was cool and pleasant, if somewhat dark, and filled with the strong aroma of animal sweat.  
  
Gryffindor had class with Slytherin, and as Harry entered the stable, he could feel the usual tension between the houses increase a tenfold. As he caught Pansy Parkinson's sneer, he felt his fists clench with the urge to squash her face even further. Malfoy failed to appear, and Harry had the unpleasant feeling that the Slytherins were particularly pleased about it. Yet not a word was said as Professor Grubbly-Plank had them review their chapter over augureys, Irish Phoenixes with mournful songs whenever rain was brewing. The weather was indeed turning foul, as the shriveled, greenish black bird let out a throbbing cry toward the end of class.  
  
During History of Magic, Harry pulled out Ancient Spells for Modern Magic and began taking notes on the various protection spells. Some were only relevant to gardening and protecting delicate herbs from pests and stronger plants. There were even protective charms to ward off dubious escorts, which made Harry blush. Many of them were outdated version of improved or altered charms and spells that he had already learned. Some had been rendered obsolete or illegal due to their harmful side effects or misuse. It seemed odd to Harry that such unusable spells were left in a modernized text.  
  
He found the Fidelius Charm, but did not want to read it. It was possible that the book would mention the failed charm on his parents, and of course, it would falsely accuse Sirius of betraying Lily and James Potter. As he turned the page, he wondered if he would find the spell that had protected him at Privet Drive for most of his life. It did not matter to him; his days at number four were over.  
  
While Professor Binns compared the first recorded and last remembered goblin rebellions, Harry skimmed over the section on the Murus Charm. "Before civilization was relatively peaceful, our magical and Muggle ancestors battled with each other and nature. Castles were fortified with walls and battlements, while a village could be protected from flood by a dike. The Murus Charm acted as both a strengthening and foundation charm for barriers and walls.  
  
"Warlocks befriended to lords were often employed to use the Murus Charm. The charm became so popular that it was soon used on paddock fences, unstable structures, and even quarrelling lovers.  
  
"The flexibility of the charm's defence was also responsible for its eventual obscurity by the seventeenth century. Hexes to break the Murus Charm's barrier were developed, rendering the spell useless. However, wizards and witches today often use a derivation of the charm for other spells for warding off offensive attacks and threats."  
  
Harry reread the text again, feeling as if he had found something. It was only an insignificant three paragraphs at the bottom on a page filled with other seemingly unimportant charms, but wasn't that just like Dumbledore? He could have used the small and obscure charm with a more obvious spell with less flexibility.  
  
Shaking with excitement, Harry scribbled down the information, barely finishing when the bell finally rang.  
  
"I think I found something!" Harry burst as Neville, Seamus, and Dean hurried past his desk towards the door. Hermione and Ron were rubbing their eyes as they packed their bags in the desk across the aisle.  
  
"Really?" said Hermione, immediately coming out of her stupor. "Let's not talk about it until we get to the library. I don't want people overhearing and gossiping about Ginny. More than they already are, anyway."  
  
They had only just entered the library when Madam Pince approached them, looking very stern. "Headmaster Dumbledore has informed me that you are all to see him in his office. Immediately!"  
  
Staring at one another, Harry, Ron, and Hermione obediently left the library for Dumbledore's office, the same question on all their minds: What had happened? 


	7. Strength of Will

A/N: I suppose this story should be rated PG-13 due to all of the darkness and torture. Again, Ginny, I'm sorry for all of this. I wish I could say I'd make it up to you in the end, but I know you won't be pleased with me. I'll write a small, fluffy fic to make up for it.  
  
And now, on with the story.  
  
Chapter Seven  
"Strength of Will"  
  
It was just like before. Waking to the dark, cold chamber. Except that Ginny's body was not numbed. It ached excruciatingly with the remnants of Voldemort's prolonged administration of the Cruciatus Curse. She felt raped; empty, brutally bent and used against her will and then abandoned. She lay very still, breathing shallowly, keeping her eyes squeezed shut.  
  
As her consciousness slowly began to collect itself, she became aware of her surroundings. She wasn't in the cold cell underneath Malfoy Manor. At least, not the same cell. The soft, echoing trickle of dripping water hitting stone was gone, and the wall she was rolled against felt different, as if the stone had been cut at a different time. She wasn't lying directly on the icy stone floor, but on a very thin, itchy blanket that tormented her bruised nerves. After some tentative touching, she realized that she was completely wrapped in the blanket.  
  
Ginny took a deeper breath, wincing at the pain in her chest. Had she cracked her ribs? Could Cruciatus do that to bones? Or had her twisting and retching caused the injury?  
  
There was a rattling breath, and Ginny felt an icy prickle travel down her spine. Reaching tendrils, like specters, began crawling around the edge of her mind. She shrank away from the approaching grayness. A corner of her mind realized what was happening, but the rest of her desperately wanted to not believe it.  
  
"No," she gasped, curling herself into a tight ball, pressing her protesting back against the hard wall.  
  
It was all rushing back to her. Everything. Flashes of screams-her own- that high, cruel laughter, Harry's apology, his disappearance in the Third Task, Nagini circling, Voldemort caressing her face, laughing mockingly before drawing his wand.  
  
"Stop it!" she screamed, wrenching her eyes open and unfurling her body. She cried out in agony as her body exploded in sharp bursts of pain.  
  
Ginny stared unblinkingly upwards at the towering figure just feet from her, unable to breathe for the horror that affixed her. The Dementor stood above her, part of the darkness and shadow, the fathomless hole of its hood the source of the darkness, like a black hole sucking in all of the light. It drew in rattling breaths that echoed horridly in the stone chamber, a second entity of its own. Although she couldn't see its face, she knew the empty sockets of its eyes were fixed hungrily upon her, feeding off her fear.  
  
"I don't feel that way about you."  
  
"Look, Potter! You've got yourself a girlfriend!"  
  
"I don't think Potter liked your Valentine, Weasley!"  
  
"Will you-I mean-Ginny? Will you-"  
  
"Sure, Neville."  
  
Ginny shook her head furiously against the barrage of memories that swirled around her in a vicious, random cyclone. She forced her eyes to stay open, staring up at the Dementor, and quickly checked herself-Good. It was still there.  
  
But was that really a good thing? Ginny wondered, as she stared at the unmoving figure that seemed to seep out of the inky blackness. Tom Riddle may still be trapped within her, but she was still here, hostage and helpless. If she even tried to escape, surely the Dementor would-  
  
Ginny choked.  
  
What if it Kissed her?  
  
What if Voldemort simply tortured her for a little bit, then ordered the creature to steal her soul? She shuddered and a wave of deadly chill swept over her, powered by Tom Riddle's gloating face and cruel eyes as he emerged from the pages of the diary. Her sobs echoed and her knees surrendered to collapse as Tom Riddle traced the line of one of her tears. Then he forcefully willed her to stand and then fall to her knees again.  
  
"You are in my power, I am your very will. How does it feel to have no control over even your very breath? I can stop your breathing, Ginny Weasley."  
  
From down on her bleeding knees, Ginny suddenly clutched her throat as she felt it close. She opened her mouth, fighting to even gasp as Tom, her handsome, caring Tom, grinned in delight. Her lungs were screaming, her head pounding, spots were appearing before her eyes.  
  
"Enough."  
  
Ginny fell to the floor, gasping and coughing spasmodically. She felt dizzy with the sickening pleasure of sudden air. Sputtering, she tried to wipe tears from her eyes and find the Gryffindor bravery that Ron had shown last year, but then her spinal cord was straightening and she was again standing at Tom's order, unable to escape.  
  
"You are very weak-"  
  
"N-no! This isn't . . . happening." With a tremendous effort, Ginny wrenched herself away from the memory, grappling for a pleasant thought. Hot chocolate in the infirmary with Madam Pomfrey gently rubbing soothing circles on her back. She loved chocolate, and chocolate was a weapon against Dementors.  
  
Blinking, Ginny reached out a steadying hand to brace herself. Slowly, she sat upright and wrapped the thin blanket tightly around her shivering body. The Dark creature's breathing grew louder, expressing its rage for her defiance. Then it sharply turned its head.  
  
Ginny followed the unseen gaze. Narrowing her eyes, she could make out another heavy door braced by iron. Her stomach turned with trepidation. Someone was on the other side.  
  
There was a heavy scraping of metal, and then the door creaked ominously open. Cloaked Death Eaters entered, each giving the Dementor a nervous look from behind their masks. Ginny shrank away but had no strength or will to fight as hard hands grasped her forearms and hauled her to her feet.  
  
"Master requests your presence," hissed Nagini out in the corridor.  
  
Does she expect me to respond? Ginny wondered, staring down at the enormous snake as she was hauled into the dancing torchlight of another stone corridor. She knew she was under Malfoy Manor, but it was a different level or wing than before. Clearly they wanted to disorient her.  
  
It was another exhausting march through Malfoy's twisted maze of dungeon. With each step, Ginny felt weaker and weaker. The very center of her bones throbbed and she could barely lift her head. Nagini seemed eager to speak to her, as if unaware of her denial, and the Dementor that trailed her Death Eater escorts.  
  
They emerged from a wall rather than a trap door. No, not a wall. A fireplace. Ginny found herself in the same study as before, but the furniture had been pushed against the walls, leaving space for-  
  
Ginny trembled.  
  
"Wait here," said the voice of Macnair. He shoved Ginny into the armchair, waved his wand, and magical ropes appeared around her wrists, legs, and chest, binding her. She wanted to push against the constraint, but didn't want to give the Death Eater the satisfaction of seeing her struggle. Instead, she glared defiantly at him.  
  
"Don't worry, the Dark Lord will be here soon enough, little one," Macnair mocked, earning a chuckle from his fellow Death Eaters. "Meanwhile, these two will keep you company." He gestured to the Dementor and Nagini, then jerked his hood at the other Death Eaters, and they quickly exited the room through the door.  
  
"You are trying to be brave," Nagini murmured, curling her body at Ginny's feet and raising her long, slender body until she was eye level with the girl. Her ruby eyes glittered. "I do not understand that sort of bravery. It is pointless."  
  
Ginny sucked in a deep breath. She wanted to ignore Nagini, wanted to pretend she couldn't understand the hisses and flicking tongue, but neither did she want to succumb to the Dementor's rattling breath. But what if talking to the snake only increased the hold of the presence inside her? She felt it growing despite her efforts to shut it away.  
  
"I hate that thing." Nagini's tail twitched irritably. "It only gains power from others. It does not use it for any other purpose. It is wasteful."  
  
"Oh." Ginny was at a loss for words. After a moment of gaping, she said, "I hate it as well."  
  
"So you will speak. Good. The other one will not. It offends me."  
  
"Offends you?" repeated Ginny, incredulous.  
  
Nagini flicked her tongue, almost sulkily. "Yes. Speakers are very rare. It is an honor for a human. The other one committed a sacrilege. The common garden dweller would be indifferent to the other one's refusal to speak, but I am of the highest breeding. I assure you, I do not take this lightly."  
  
It suddenly occurred to Ginny that Voldemort's pet snake was a snob. "I doubt Harry meant to hurt your feelings," she said carefully, hoping the snake couldn't read thoughts as well. "And he has talked to snakes before. He set a boa constrictor loose from a zoo, told another snake to back off of Justin, and he used one to fight off Death Eaters-"  
  
Ginny stopped. What was she doing? Next thing she'd be telling Nagini all about the Chamber of Secrets and how Tom Riddle, the younger version of her master, used her to set an even greater snake loose on Hogwarts students. She shuddered and squirmed underneath the tight ropes and Nagini's inquisitive gaze.  
  
"He has not spoken to me," the snake seemed to sniff. Nagini raised herself even higher, opening her mouth to reveal her fangs, which dripped with her venom. "When Master has killed the other one, I will feast upon him. Master promised me."  
  
Had her legs not been bound to the chair leg, Ginny would have kicked the snake. She let out an angry cry and wrenched her face away from the hungry fangs, squeezing her eyes shut. Nagini sounded as if she were chuckling at Ginny's revulsion, and Ginny sensed the snake's body moving around and around the chair, brushing against her legs.  
  
It was almost enough to make her wish Voldemort would arrive soon, just to end it. Almost.  
  
As if reading her mind, the Dark Lord entered following his league of Death Eaters.  
  
"Ah. I see you have made friends with Nagini," said Voldemort in his cold, smooth voice. "Excellent. She has revealed to me that you speak Parseltongue? A wonderful gift, courtesy of myself. You really should be more grateful, Ginny Weasley."  
  
Ginny kept her eyes shut, hoping desperately for a nightmare she would shortly wake from. Then she could sneak down to the common room, where Harry would already be, staring bleakly into the fireplace, absently rubbing his scar. She would lean her head against his shoulder and pat his hand, knowing that words were not necessary. He would smile that smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, turn towards her, and ask if she was all right. Instead of answering, she would suggest a chess match. She might let him win, or she might not. Then, when the sky began to lighten, they would say their good nights and return to their dormitories. At breakfast they would exchange a knowing look and then pretend as if nothing had happened.  
  
"Ginny."  
  
A whimper escaped her as she felt Voldemort's cool fingertip trace her left cheek, drawing her buried face away from the armchair and to him. She felt her eyelids lift.  
  
"I am your will."  
  
"No." It was so soft, so quiet that Ginny thought she'd imagined it.  
  
"No? Do you still persist with your foolish 'bravery'? Gryffindor, a thoughtless and incompetent house. I believe your entire family consists of Gryffindors?"  
  
Ginny bit her lip to keep from retorting angrily. She was not going to fall for Voldemort's taunting. Yes, I am a Gryffindor, and we're brave, just, and good. Unlike you!  
  
"I see you are not in a conversational mood today," said Voldemort, pressing his palms together in a steeple. "Very well, we will dispose of the preliminaries. Will you or will you not be cooperative?"  
  
"I will not."  
  
Voldemort's slit eyes narrowed, but he did not seem at all surprised. "Very well. Crucio."  
  
Ginny hadn't even seen him raise his wand before she arched in agony against her binds. She was vaguely aware of her screams, but they were inhuman, they couldn't be her. She was engulfed in excruciating pain as her nerves threatened to splinter and shatter.  
  
When it abruptly faded away, she was left limp and ragged.  
  
"How did that feel?"  
  
Let me rip, let me tear!  
  
Ginny raised her chin. Tears blurred her eyes.  
  
"If I were to prolong the Cruciatus Curse, I would damage you beyond repair," Voldemort continued, as if unaware of her agony. "Even a short experience will destroy a Muggle's mind and body. With a witch, like yourself, it takes much longer. However, even magical bodies and minds are easily destroyed. I need your body and your mind fairly intact, my little Ginny."  
  
"So why are you doing this?" she asked before she could stop herself.  
  
Voldemort smiled. "You know exactly why. You see, I could simply ask the Dementor to offer you a little Kiss and then extract your soul for my use. Of course, no spell can perform such magic; the Dementor must return it freely of its own will. However, this is not a difficulty. My subjects are very loyal." He paused to cast his eyes over the lurking shadow, and then returned his eager, hungry face on Ginny.  
  
"Only . . . truly great achievements are never done so easily. The greatest achievement has not been conquered as of yet, but soon," Voldemort let his thin mouth spread across his narrow face, "soon, my Ginny.  
  
"Immortality! To bind life, stop death, forever restore youth and power! That is the greatest achievement, the most ambitious and powerful goal! And you, my Ginny, will be a part of it! Turn aside your naïve 'bravery' and realize what your sacrifice will become."  
  
Ginny retched, jerking against the ropes. The excitement buried deep within her crashed against the special barrier. The barrier was still there, strong with Dumbledore's magic. It wrapped around her like strong, comforting arms. But what if Dumbledore hadn't had the foresight to protect her? Would she have given in to Voldemort? How truly weak was she? The courage she had felt from the steady protection eroded under the cascade of self-doubt.  
  
"Your element requires your willing surrender," Voldemort was saying as he paced the room. "I could simply use the Imperius Curse on your weak mind, but it would not strengthen the spell or provide a sacrifice. Dumbledore was clever enough to provide a thin layer of protection for you, but it will not matter. When your will breaks, so will his charm."  
  
I've got to hold on, she told herself, searching for the valor she had found when she'd first woken in the lonely chamber. I just don't know if I can.  
  
Voldemort pivoted and faced Ginny, his gaze calculating. "You can save yourself much pain, Ginny Weasley. Surrender now. I will break you."  
  
Ginny wanted to scream, plead, and beg. Not for his mercy, but for all of this to end. Riddle scratched incessantly inside her, like a cat sharpening its claws on a chair leg. He had always been too weak to escape before-if indeed he had wanted to escape. But now Voldemort was here, and his presence was feeding the shadow inside her. What if she couldn't withstand the attack from either side?  
  
She was being eaten inside and out.  
  
"All you have to do is say yes, and it will all be over."  
  
"No!" It was an automatic response, given without thought. Ginny swallowed hard as Voldemort raised his wand again.  
  
"It is your choice. Crucio!"  
  
~*~*~  
  
Time lost all meaning. Ginny knew not how long she writhed and screamed, or how many times it subsided long enough for her mind to wheel around, drunken with pain as she tried to pick up pieces of her scattered thoughts. Whenever Voldemort dropped his curse and she surfaced from the torture, she was engulfed by the Dementor's overwhelming power to torment her with dark visions and deadly cold.  
  
"You are weak, Ginny. Why do you think Dumbledore placed that protection charm? He knew you would not last without it. You would have surrendered at the first burst of pain."  
  
She could never tell if it was Voldemort or Tom Riddle, the present or the past, that taunted her. When she was able to think clearly, she tried to fasten on a single thought or memory, something to ease the pain. She thought of Harry, of his eyes, his smile, his troubled frowns, the exaltation when he flew around the Quidditch pitch.  
  
Most of all, she thought of his touch. How carefully, hesitantly, his lips had found hers . . .  
  
Then there was another blast of agony, and Harry was gone. All that existed was pain.  
  
And then it stopped. Ginny reeled, unable to comprehend anything but her anticipation for an onslaught of cold darkness and taunts. A long moment passed, but it could have been a second. The pain continued to recede, but Ginny barely had the strength to realize it. She lay on the floor, curled, struggling to breathe. It hurt! Everything hurt!  
  
"Lucius! The potion!"  
  
Ginny felt the vibrations of someone's footsteps and she whimpered against the pain in her eardrums. Then she screamed as she was suddenly yanked up on her knees. Her eyes reflexively flew open, but they blurred and remained unfocused as hot tears burned through them.  
  
"I think our little Ginny has had quite enough," said Voldemort chillingly. He was so close, but yet so far away. She wanted to step away from her captor, open her arms wide, and shout "Take me!" Then she would be filled with power, more power than ever before!  
  
Ginny twitched. She wanted to kick and scream, but her body refused to obey and her mouth would not move. Tom Riddle was stronger. She felt an inner anger at her body's complete immobility. Not even Riddle could make her move.  
  
"Now that you have had time to dwell on it, will you be reasonable?"  
  
She knew she had to respond, but not even her mind could silently answer. All that she was aware of was the glowing presence that seemed to burn like a hot coal. It was draining her, just like before, only everything was being pulled further inside.  
  
"Very well. Lucius, Wormtail." Ginny felt a hand grip her jaw and someone mutter an incantation. The immobile state of her mouth was suddenly released, and she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The grip was too strong.  
  
"I am giving you a Restorative Draught, my little Ginny," said Voldemort. "It will restore your strength and mind . . . so we can continue with our little discussion. You will continue to receive these draughts and experience pain until you agree to the sacrifice. Once you are submissive, you will receive another draught, and the pain will end."  
  
Ginny felt something foul but familiar fill her mouth. She choked on the thick substance as it burned her aching mouth and throat. Jerking against the hands that held her, Ginny tried to vomit, but her mouth was clamped shut. Her stomach retched, rejecting it even before she thought, I won't take this! I'll be left to die, and then he can't have his sacrifice! But her throat refused to allow the potion to pass again. It lodged itself there, blocking her air passage as she convulsed and tried again to vomit. Sour, stinging pain prickled inside her nose and behind her eyes. Then her lungs began to scream for air and a roaring filled her ears.  
  
She swallowed. Her stomach tried to reject it again, but she felt a spell fasten the potion inside, and she fell, coughing, to the floor.  
  
The potion was strong and fast-acting. She tried to vomit again, but her body only jerked with the convulsion. The pain and ache began to ease and her thoughts were becoming less scattered and more coherent. As someone lifted her off the floor and into the armchair (when had she been removed from the chair?), her vision began to clear. Only Voldemort, Lucius, and Pettigrew were in the room. The other Death Eaters and Dementor were gone, and even Nagini had left her vigil by the fire.  
  
"I sent Nagini on the hunt," explained Voldemort, noticing Ginny's glance at the empty hearthrug. "She can become bored with my procedures."  
  
Ginny stared dully at the skeletal remains of Tom Riddle. Although the Restorative Draught was quickly reviving her, she could still feel the affect of Cruciatus. Sluggishly, she checked the defensive barrier that surrounded the burning center, and found it still erected. But Riddle was stronger. What would it matter, if he would soon be strong enough to break it?  
  
That would depend on you, a voice whispered. It almost sounded like Dumbledore.  
  
If it depended on her, Ginny thought, then she was probably doomed. I can't think like that. But it was so easy to. How could she possibly hold out against Voldemort?  
  
Harry, I need to think about Harry. Laying her head back against the chair, Ginny closed her eyes, thinking as far back as Ron's first day of Hogwarts. An image of a tiny, messy-haired boy in rumpled, too-large clothes stood uncertainly at King's Cross, a snowy white owl his only companion. She remembered how vulnerable he had looked, and how shyly and politely he had addressed her mother. He had glanced at her, but that was all.  
  
As it had been for years.  
  
"I know what you are thinking, my Ginny," Voldemort's cold sneer jerked Ginny from her memories. She blinked and pressed herself as far back in the armchair as possible. The tall wizard only pressed closer, delight glowing in his eyes. "Harry Potter. You must be brave for Harry Potter. It is despicable-pathetic-how you cling to him. Why? The boy has never noticed you, as your thoughts have revealed. And what made your capture so easy for my Death Eaters?"  
  
Ginny felt a sob welling up in her chest. She fought to keep her eyes fastened on the cruel stare, to appear unaffected. Her hands began to tremble.  
  
"Yes, my sweet little Ginny," whispered Voldemort, now standing just before her, bending his thin frame low to her. "Harry Potter, your love, has rejected you. Refused. He does not love you."  
  
Ginny dug her fingernails into the plush armrests, but a sob escaped her and she jerked her head away, shutting her eyes.  
  
"Why then, I ask, do you cling to Harry Potter? Why suffer for someone who does not care for you?"  
  
"I would refuse," Ginny said through gritted teeth, "even if I did not-I am refusing-because it is right-"  
  
Voldemort laughed mockingly, straightening his body and turning towards Lucius Malfoy near the hearth. "'Because it is right.' How foolish and naïve." He returned his gaze to Ginny, a patronizing smile on his serpent mouth. "Morality, Ginny, is for the weak."  
  
Still mocking her with his slit of a mouth, Voldemort reached out one white hand and lifted her chin. Unlike before, Ginny felt too weary to even flinch. An overwhelming exhaustion seemed to fall over her, dragging her away from awareness. Her eyes drooped. Underneath the dull ache leftover from Cruciatus, she felt a familiar, blissful feeling creeping into her mind. It was like swimming without effort, holding her breath just below the surface as she let the water suspend her body. She loved this feeling. It always soothed the sharp pain, made her forget.  
  
Forget the pain, the coldness. Forget everything. Harry, forget Harry.  
  
No. Why would I want to forget Harry?  
  
It was quick. Ginny jerked against the sharp withdrawal. With startling clarity, she realized what had happened; Riddle was taking hold of her. Shuddering, Ginny shook herself, took a deep breath, and looked up to find Voldemort staring down at her, his hand hovering under her chin. She knew before he did it that he was going to touch her again. Instead of panicking, Ginny felt her stubbornness determinedly shove that glowing presence back down, as if it were merely Fred or George teasing her on the staircase.  
  
Voldemort's cold hand cupped her chin again, eyes alight with anticipation, even slightly curious. Ginny glared back, but her body trembled. She felt the pull again.  
  
"Enough of this." The Dark Lord straightened, removing his hands from her face. "I see my younger self is becoming stronger than you. Excellent. But I cannot have my former self controlling you. Just think, it could have all been over just now, but I would not have had my sacrifice."  
  
Ha! Ginny wanted to tell Riddle, You about messed everything up for yourself! But she felt no victory; Tom Riddle had almost had her.  
  
Too shaken by this, Ginny almost didn't hear Voldemort.  
  
"Now you must see how futile this is. What is your answer?"  
  
"No."  
  
Lord Voldemort stood very still for a long moment. Then, with deadly grace, he turn to Lucius. "Call the Death Eaters. And your son."  
  
"Very good, my lord," bowed Lucius. "He arrived two hours ago."  
  
"Have him ready." Voldemort fastened his glinting red eyes on Ginny. "I want to finish this." 


	8. Really Rank Rain

__

A/N: Sorry about the long delay, but life is busy. I've been told that the last chapter was redundant because Ginny has already been tortured. However, I felt that I would be short-changing Ginny and readers for later on if I wasn't thorough with the process of breaking Ginny down. However, I can tell you that the "procedure" will no longer be covered. 

And here they are, the Weasley Twins!

****

Chapter Eight

__

"Really Rank Rain"

Riding the moving, spiral staircase, Harry felt himself grow sicker and sicker with dread. Behind him Ron and Hermione had clasped hands. Harry glanced down at his own. He had held Ginny's hand before. It had felt so small but so right in his. Her fingertips were usually stained from ink blots that she had forgotten to charm off. 

His hands felt so empty.

The steps came to a stop on the landing. Harry shoved his hands nervously in his pockets and stepped off. He heard the soft sound of a kiss behind him. For a moment he couldn't breathe, and then he felt his friends press in behind him.

"Are you okay, Harry?" asked Hermione softly, touching his shoulder.

"No." Harry kept his gaze fastened on the door, and then raised his fist and knocked. After two seconds, it swung open slightly to admit them. Harry took a deep breath. Delaying wasn't going to change what had already happened. He couldn't save himself from it.

Swiftly, Harry stepped into Professor Dumbledore's office, barely aware of Ron and Hermione hurrying in after them. He felt dreamlike, as if nothing was really happening.

"Fred! George!"

Harry felt someone shove past him, and suddenly Ron was rushing towards two wild blurs of red. Staring stupidly, Harry slowly recognized Fred and George Weasley, who were very busy ruffling Ron's hair and causing the youngest Weasley boy to flush with happiness and embarrassment.

"Sirius! You're back already!" Hermione was beside herself, clasping her hands as her eyes danced back and forth from the Weasley twins to Sirius. "Surely . . . surely this is good news, right?"

Professor Dumbledore gestured with a sweep of his arm for everyone to take a seat. "Possibly, Hermione. I cannot say definitely what condition Ginny is in, but I know she is alive."

"We're going to get her back, Ron!" said Fred eagerly, pushing Ron into a chair between him and George. 

Harry was the last left standing until Hermione tugged on his sleeve. He still couldn't get over seeing the twins again, and it truly _was_ seeing them again. Over the last two years their mischievous, identical grins had been less free and wide. They looked as if they had invented something spectacularly dangerous and clever again. Harry's heart lifted.

"How?" demanded Ron, nearly jumping out of his chair. "How are you going to get into Malfoy Manor? Did you finally figure it out? What are we—"

"Ron! Be quiet so they can tell us!" hissed Hermione, but she looked just as eager.

"Thank you, Hermione," said Dumbledore, smiling as he bowed his head to her. He folded his hands on his desk and leveled everyone with his light blue stare. Harry thought he could detect a hint of a twinkle somewhere in the serious gaze, but he might have been imagining it. "Early this morning I was awoken very urgently by Fawkes—"

Harry suddenly realized the fiery feathered phoenix had returned to his perch behind Dumbledore. Fawkes' head was cocked to the side, as if listening very intently to what the headmaster was saying—which, Harry knew, he probably understood perfectly—but then the bird turned his graceful neck towards the twins, ruffling his feathers, perhaps recalling the early morning disturbance. Harry's mouth twitched, and again he wondered what other powers Fawkes contained.

"We're sorry to have disturbed you, Professor," said George quickly, but not at all sounding too contrite.

Dumbledore smiled at George. "I welcome every morning that begins in such a manner, Mr. Weasley."

"So, what is it?" asked Ron impatiently.

Fred and George glanced eagerly at Dumbledore, who nodded graciously. "We've found a way to break into Malfoy Manor!" they cried together.

"It's so simple!" began George.

"But all genius is seemingly simple, once you've discovered it, but it really takes someone with incredible brains to figure it out—" added Fred, nearly jumping out of his chair as he gripped Ron's forearm.

"Mind you, once you discover it, then you have to spend _endless_ hours devising and designing and configuring and conjecturing—"

"But we had _no_ problem with that, because we're—"

"Geniuses," they said together.

A pause followed this proclamation of ingenuity, and then Hermione said with barely contained exasperation. "Then what _is_ it?"

"_Really Rank Rain!_"

Another pause. Harry stared at the twins, and then glanced at Dumbledore for help. The headmaster was beaming, his eyes averted to the ceiling, his long fingers pressed in a steeple. Looking to Sirius, Harry detected a note of mischievous admiration from his godfather.

"Really Rank Rain?" said Harry, hoping he didn't sound too skeptical or confused.

"It sounds like one of your Wheezes," Ron said slowly, as if trying not to sound insulting.

The twins simultaneously let their eyes roll slowly around, exaggerating to let everyone know how _slow_ their younger brother was. "_Yes_, little ones," said Fred, sounding remarkably like a professor. He stood up and strode over to Hermione, casually draping his arm around her shoulders, smiling in a patronizing way. 

"Remember back in your fifth year, Little Miss Prefect?" Fred inquired sweetly as Hermione swiveled around and pursed her lips at him. "When we distracted you from studying for your O.W.L.s by attacking you with Dungbombs?"

"Yes, I remember," Hermione huffed irritably, as if it had just been yesterday. "I couldn't concentrate on _anything_ until _at least_ midnight, when that stench began to wear off."

Harry thought that Fred had never looked prouder, but he couldn't see what annoying Hermione had to do with saving Ginny. What were they going to do, throw Dungbombs at Malfoy Manor to annoy Voldemort? It would just be like Fred and George Weasley to do something like that.

Ron voiced exactly what Harry had been thinking, and beside him, George gave a long-suffering sigh. "_Honestly_, little brother, you have no faith in us! Throwing Dungbombs is illogical, not to mention impractical. We need to cover a bigger area than the Gryffindor common room. As the Malfoys have always regaled us with tales of their fortune, I'm sure it's a decent plot of land."

"And Padfoot has the blueprints," said Fred. He grinned widely. "His own, _specialized_ blueprints."

Sirius rolled his eyes at the obvious hero-worship in Fred's eyes. Harry could still remember how ecstatic the twins had been when he'd told them who Padfoot, Moony, Wormtail, and Prongs were. Of course, they had been furious about Wormtail, once they'd gotten over the elation of having a Marauder in their house.

"So this Really Rank Rain," said Hermione slowly, "is just Dungbombs in another form?"

"You make it sound so quaint," huffed Fred indignantly, tugging one of her curls. "_Think_, Hermione. Can't you remember what it was like with us to help you study?"

Hermione muttered something very low under her breath, which made Fred grin broadly and tug her hair again. Then she said for everyone else, "Obviously, I was so distracted that I couldn't concentrate. All I could think about was that smell, not even about what I was going to do when I _could_ use magic on you two!"

Fred and George cackled. George said, "Very astute observation, Head Girl. You see, while we were studying the curses and maps of Malfoy Manor, my very intelligent brother—though he's not nearly as geniusque as myself—and I realized that since we couldn't penetrate or break the curses surrounding the git's—sorry, Professor—Malfoy's house, we would have to distract them."

"Magic can be distracted by smell?" Harry couldn't believe it. 

"If it's a very potent, magical smell," Fred confirmed. Harry looked to Dumbledore for confirmation, and he found the headmaster still beaming amusedly, as if he thought all of this very clever. "You see, the curses on Malfoy Manor were designed to block physical and magical opponents. Rain is physical, and it also coats everything it touches and effects it in some way. It'll be hit _everywhere_ by the rain, and as it becomes drenched, it'll absorb it, along with the magical components. So, it'll be battling both physical and magical elements from within and without."

"Since it's not dark or light magic," continued George, copying Fred's teaching tone, "the barriers cannot be strengthened. It'll be confused, and thus, diffused. In that time, we can break the barriers and enter the manor with relative safety and ease."

"What about the Death Eaters inside?" Hermione asked, a look of amazement on her face.

"Oh, that's easy. They'll be just like you. Overpowered and distracted by the rank aroma we've coated everything in," said Fred. He waggled his eyebrows. "We are very thorough with our inventions and plans, Hermione."

Hermione pursed her lips again, clearly caught between annoyance and respect. "But what about the Order? They'll be just as distracted."

"Rain slickers, galoshes, masks heavily scented with lovely perfumes," George ticked off on his fingers. "We'll be fully capable for catching Death Eaters and rescuing Ginny while our noses think we're in a valley of lilies."

Hermione's eyes bounced from Fred to George before she gave a sigh. "You two really _are_ mad."

Fred gave her hair another affectionate tug. "You ever had any doubt?"

~*~*~

Ron's stomach was tight and empty. He felt light-headed and heavy-footed. The past two hours had flown past in a blur of Fred and George's exclamations, Hermione's quiet, inquisitive comments, and Harry's silence. Dumbledore and Sirius seemed to be very calm and in control, but there was an energy running swiftly between them as they discussed the plans of Really Rank Rain with Fred and George, their wands moving from point to point on the manor diagrams. Apparently the twins had been working on this concept since the summer, but had not spoken a word. They'd always preferred their inventions to remain hidden and unimagined until they were ready to wreck havoc on their victims.

It worried Ron. He had always loved the twins' Weasley Wizard Wheezes, but to use something only slightly more sophisticated than Dungbombs to save their sister? Ron wasn't sure if he was willing to risk it. If it wasn't for the fact it was _Ginny_ trapped behind the dark stone walls, Ron would have suggested more time for a better plan.

And who was to say it wouldn't work? When had the twins ever been so serious about their inventions? Ginny was their sister as much as Ron's, and he knew they were as sick with worry and fear as he was. Not even the twins would risk Ginny to try a silly prank. They believed it would work, so he had to as well.

"Drizzle can handle the Precipitation Spell," Fred was saying at one point. "Besides, it's fitting for her alias."

Ron exchanged a look with Harry and Hermione. It surprised him that Dumbledore hadn't shooed them out of the office yet, and he was growing more curious as he heard certain codenames for other members of the Order. Voldemort operated in a form of secrecy, so no one but him knew who everyone was or what was being planned. The Order of the Phoenix had taken much the same precaution, except to a less severe extent. Although he did want to eliminate the consequences of spies, Dumbledore did not want competition for the inner circle that existed in Voldemort's structure.

Ron was beginning to wonder what part he would play in the rescue mission. After all, he, Harry, and Hermione had all been an active part of the Order in the past two years. Most of the time it had not been a sanctioned role, but Ron always had the impression that Dumbledore had figured it all into his plans.

Would the headmaster allow them to breach Malfoy Manor, or would they be ordered to stay behind?

"Professor Dumbledore," Harry said suddenly, as if reading Ron's mind, "what—what are we to do?"

The tall wizard lifted his long nose from the map on his desk. "I know how very badly you each feel you need to be part of this," Dumbledore said gently but firmly. "However, I must ask you to remain here at Hogwarts. Harry, it is not time for you to face Voldemort, especially with Ginny in his captive."

Something in Dumbledore's voice made Ron shiver. Was it possible Ginny would be used against Harry? The sudden image of Ginny raising her wand to Harry, her eyes vacant and her face blank, caused Ron's stomach to retch violently. Sucking in a breath, he clutched his stomach, fighting the urge to be sick.

"I know it will be very stressing for you three," Dumbledore continued. Ron could feel the understanding gaze on him, but he couldn't look up as he stared down at the floor. "Therefore, I will keep you as informed as possible."

"Yes, sir," mumbled Harry and Hermione. Ron could only nod.

"Now, I believe it is supper. Professor McGonagall will speak with you in the morning. Good night."

~*~*~

"And we never did ask him about the book!" Ron exclaimed as he pushed his food around his plate. The roast beef had long gone cold.

"I know," Hermione sighed wearily, her Arithmancy homework spread out beside her plate. She'd only eaten her potatoes. "We can ask him tomorrow, maybe."

"He's not talking to us tomorrow, remember? _McGonagall_ is."

Hermione paused in her formula problem to smile slightly at Ron. Usually it was _she_ who made the correct observations. 

"I bet Dumbledore attacks Malfoy Manor tomorrow. I mean, why else would he not talk to us?" Ron continued, poking fork holes through his meat.

Hermione didn't respond. She felt just as lost as Ron, and just as angry. It seemed pointless to even try to be objective about Draco Malfoy's knowledge of Ginny's kidnapping. The Great Hall was absent of his sneer, and Crabbe and Goyle appeared close to fits for going a whole day without him. Ginny had been gone for two days now, and Hermione suddenly wondered how she, Ron, and Harry looked to everyone else. No one had really approached them, not even to offer their consolation and pity.

"I think it's the Murus Charm," Harry said suddenly, jerking Hermione from her musings. He'd had his nose buried in _Ancient Spells for Modern Magic_. "It just seems to fit."

Hermione brought the book over to her side of the table, stealing a glance at Harry as she did so. His jawline was tense, but otherwise she couldn't tell what he was thinking. He pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned forward, waiting for her confirmation. Obediently, Hermione reread the text on the Murus Charm for the fourth time. It _did_ seem to fit. But what was the partner spell?

"Did you find anything else in there to go with this?" she asked Harry hopefully.

Harry shook his head, taking the book back. Ignoring his untouched supper, he returned to scanning the pages for an answer.

Hermione refrained from sighing. She had to finish her Arithmancy for tomorrow, but for once the formulas and equations were giving her a headache. Nothing seemed to make sense, although she knew she could have solved these problems any other time with reasonable ease. Finally, she slammed her book shut.

"Let's go back to the library and have a look at that book."

"But it'll be closed by now," said Ron, holding up his watch and pointing at the time. It was after nine-thirty and the Great Hall was almost empty. "I don't think Harry's cloak will fit over all of us," he added, eyebrows jumping in realization when he saw the look on Hermione's face.

Hermione smiled grimly. "I have patrol duty tonight."

~*~*~

Under the magical silvery cloak, Harry and Ron found _Death Do Part_ exactly where they had left it. Harry refused to touch the book, feeling sick as Ron pulled it down off the shelf. Together they folded their legs under them, sitting close together on the floor, the Invisibility Cloak draped around them.

__

"Lumos," whispered Harry, holding his wand over the book. The velvet black cover seemed to suck in all the light from his wand tip, and the green lettering of the title flashed eerily at Harry.

"Okay," breathed Ron, gingerly opening the book. "What should I look for? I mean, this is a big book all about one subject . . ." He looked across at Harry uncertainly. "I wish Hermione was here. She'd know what to look for."

Harry frowned, thinking hard. They wanted to know what methods Voldemort might use to reach immortality, especially anything that involved other people being used in the process. The only close method that Harry knew of was using unicorn's blood, but Voldemort had already done it, and it didn't involve Ginny. "See if there's anything about, oh I don't, reincarnation? I mean, I guess you could look at Riddle's diary being sort of like that."

"Oh yeah, like how he preserved himself!" exclaimed Ron. A book on the shelf muttered grumpily to itself, and Ron quickly hushed. "Yeah, that'd be like preserving youth, right? It didn't matter that the diary was fifty years old, so as long as someone was there to, er, write in it."

Harry nodded fervently, feeling distinctly cold under the stuffy confines of the cloak. As Ron began searching through the book, the pages crackling with each turn, Harry gazed into the darkness of the library. He remembered his first trip here under the Invisibility Cloak, how he had inadvertently discovered the Mirror of Erised and seen his parents for the first time since he could remember. If he looked into the mirror now, what would he see? Ginny, unharmed, in his arms.

Harry dug a fist into his thigh, trying to suppress his urge to cry out. Last night he had seen and felt Ginny's pain. Would he feel it again tonight? Or would he be dealt Voldemort's anger? Both sensations were extremely painful and disturbing, but Harry would take the Dark Lord's wrath over what he'd felt last night. _But if he's angry, he'll probably take it out on Ginny_, he thought, gritting his teeth. _If he's angry, that means Ginny isn't doing what he wants—whatever it is—but then he'll doing something worse!_

"Wow," muttered Ron, turning another page. "'Mazing how many wizards killed themselves trying to become immortal. You'd think they'd just all learn alchemy."

Harry stared at the top of Ron's bent head. Why _hadn't_ Voldemort ever tried to make a Philosopher's Stone? Or had he, but failed? Not since the end of his first year had Harry wondered about Nicholas Flamel and the small stone that brought him face to face with Voldemort for the second time. Where was he? Was he even still alive? Had Dumbledore arranged for the alchemist's safe hiding, to keep Voldemort from trying to pry another Stone from the wizard's skilled hands?

There was so much Harry wanted to ask Dumbledore, but it seemed he never had the chance. Always there was something more pressing to be taken care of, something immediate and vital. Over the past few years many questions had been answered, but the answered only brought more questions. It was exhausting.

"Have you found anything yet?" Harry asked in a low whisper, needing a distraction.

Ron gave his head a shake. "Oh yeah, loads of stuff, if I'm ever barmy enough to try this stuff! You think the Polyjuice Potion was bad . . . You know what? I think death would be preferable to some of this. You have to be a complete nutter . . ."

"I wouldn't exactly call Voldemort normal or sane," Harry muttered darkly.

Ron nodded silently, his face pale in the glow from Harry's wand. "You know . . . I don't like reading this. This is really Dark Arts stuff. What's it doing at Hogwarts? It's even too dark for the Restricted Section."

"Maybe a teacher brought it," suggested Harry, gazing dubiously at the opened book. A very graphic, detailed illustration of a wizard attempting to replace his heart with that of a pig glared at him on the left page, while the right explained the theory and procedure and why it failed. He wanted to be sick.

"Hate to be in that one's class, then," said Ron, turning the page with a shudder.

"There _must_ be something in there," Harry said, shifting uncomfortably. His wandlight jumped with the movement, making the illustrations seem all the more real. "I mean, where else would have Riddle gotten the idea for the diary? Or Voldemort using that potion?"

"You mean the one he used your blood in?" gulped Ron, looking even paler than before. His hand shook as he turned another page. "Blimey!"

Harry gave a shout as the book shot from Ron's lap into his; Ron jumped back so fast that he tumbled out from under the Invisibility Cloak. Harry felt a jolt of pain in his scar, but it was gone in an instant. Shoving the book onto the floor, Harry hurried over to Ron, panting with surprise.

"Ron? What happened?"

Ron had righted himself, but Harry couldn't see his face in the dark. His wand was lost under the book. "Who in their right mind would illustrate _that_?" Ron croaked in disbelief and horror, gesturing toward _Death Do Part_, which was face down. 

"What was it?"

"Oh nothing really," Ron spat, "just total and complete mutilation of someone. Being eaten. Alive."

Harry felt bile rise in his throat. "_Eaten_? _Alive?!_"

"Yeah." Ron moved in the darkness past Harry. There was the rustling of the Invisibility Cloak being picked up and the book being turned over. Ron made an odd sort of sound as Harry's glowing wand illuminated the contents of the book. Harry saw the revolted, horror-struck look on Ron's face before his friend slammed the book shut and returned it to the shelf. "I've had enough of this for one night."

Twenty minutes later, they were safely back in Gryffindor Tower, but neither could sleep. Harry lay awake listening to Ron toss and turn, obviously unsettled by what he'd seen and read in the velvety black book. Harry's scar burst into pain in quick succession, then at seemingly random intervals, and finally not at all. It wasn't until the gray hours of morning, when the darkness of the dormitory began to lift, that Ron finally settled down. Harry rolled over and felt his eyes finally close.


	9. Draco Malfoy's Test

A/N: Ack! That is exactly how I feel about life right now. I apologize profusely for the long delay between chapters. I tried to tell Life that it has to adjust its agenda to my schedule, but Life just wouldn't have it.  
  
I would feel so much better if this chapter could be beta-read, but alas, SQ no longer provides that for pre-OotP stories. Usually I prefer to have the next chapter be finished as well before I send this one off, but since it's been a long wait, I will not keep you.  
  
Also, this is the first time I've really ever had to write Draco Malfoy, and at a rather crucial point as well. He's very upset with me, because I am not a fan girl who dons him in tight, leather pants.  
  
Chapter Nine  
"Draco Malfoy's Test"  
  
Draco Malfoy moved agitatedly around his lavishly furnished room. He had arrived early Monday morning, having crossed Britain under the cover of darkness, escorted by Nott and Lestrange back to Malfoy Manor. It had been ridiculously elaborate and showy, he thought, for them to escort the Malfoy heir to his own home. Draco knew how to bypass all the hexes and splinch walls. He could do it in his sleep. Had he not practiced all summer before returning to Hogwarts?  
  
And what had been the purpose? The year had barely started and he was already back on his father's beckon call. Draco hadn't even had a chance to implement his appointed task before Weasley had gone and had herself kidnapped.  
  
Draco paused in his movements to sweep his eyes appreciatively over his chamber. Despite the high ceiling, one was distinctly under the impression of being underground in a reverently crafted dungeon. The narrow windows that peered into the night were encased in wrought iron moldings, and the stone was a dark, marbled sort of stone that contradicted the usual cold dinginess of a dungeon. As every fireplace in Malfoy Manor was a wonder of its own, Draco's personal hearth was no less carefully crafted by the finest stone and carvings. On either side elaborate M's and the embossed Malfoy family shield seemed to glow from the stone. The same shield was carved into the heavy oak headboard of his bed.  
  
The sweep of Draco's gaze paused on the audacious vanity mirror beside the wardrobe of his great-grandfather. Straightening his shoulders, Draco approached the mirror, his head held high.  
  
Although he had never admitted it to anyone, Draco hated his appearance. Every year of his life, his father had criticized his short, slight stature, often referring to him as a runt. His ivory pale skin was a mark of his superiority, of his wealth; he was above laboring in or out of doors. But everything about him was pale; his skin, hair, and eyes all seemed weak when their fairness reflected in the mirror.  
  
"Ha," Draco scoffed, jerking his wand hand up to smooth his hair. He was not a weak little runt. Anyone who had been on the receiving end of his sharp tongue or hexes would have known that.  
  
Not that he had hexed many people . . .  
  
Draco turned abruptly away from the mirror and crossed the expensive oriental carpet to his desk. His wand was the only object occupying the shiny, polished surface. All his schoolbooks were back at Hogwarts. He wouldn't need them anymore. Not even Dumbledore could pretend to be oblivious to his allegiance to the Dark Lord.  
  
He would never see Hogwarts again, unless to attack it.  
  
Trying not to let this sink in, Draco picked up his wand, letting it roll between his hands. Crabbe and Goyle were still at school, probably dumbly wondering where he'd gone. Anyone with half a brain cell would know where the Malfoy heir had gone in the night.  
  
But why he was here, Draco wasn't entirely sure. His father had not seen him since he'd arrived, and only Nott had come to give him the order to stay in his chambers and not interfere. Ginny Weasley was somewhere in the manor with the Dark Lord and no one was to interfere. It infuriated Draco that he was not allowed any crucial information because he was not officially a Death Eater yet.  
  
Only because I was still in school, where Dumbledore has control, Draco thought, lifting up his sleeve. His forearm was bare of any sign of the Dark Mark. It wouldn't be for long. Soon, very soon he was sure, he would be given his test and proudly brought into the Dark Lord's elite circle of loyal followers. Certainly he could skip some of the lowest deeds and ranks, being a Malfoy of purest, noblest wizard blood.  
  
Just as his mind began to focus on his initiation, Draco quickly pushed it away, as he'd always done. He didn't like thinking about it deeply; it stirred too many . . . feelings in him.  
  
"This is getting ridiculous," Draco snapped to no one, glaringly gazing out one of his useless windows. It was dark outside, but he could make out the darkened depression of earth behind Malfoy Manor. A light flickered in the night wind at the center of it.  
  
A shiver passed down Draco's slight body. The Death Eaters would meet tonight.  
  
Staring down at the flickering light, Draco felt another shudder pass through him. The meeting could be for anything, but that unsettled feeling in his stomach told him what his mind was stubbornly trying to ignore. Either the Death Eaters were convening to witness whatever the Dark Lord had planned for Ginny Weasley, or else they were here for him, Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy's son.  
  
"I hope it's Weasley," he muttered to the dark sky. He jerked away from the window, startled by his proclamation. If it was indeed Ginny Weasley, then he would be still waiting for the inevitable test. At Hogwarts he could avoid thinking about it by studying for his N.E.W.T.s and taunting Potter, Weasley, and Granger, but here he would not be able to distract himself. Not with his father and the Dark Lord here.  
  
Draco ran an agitated hand through his hair, something he almost never did. Why would he want hair like Potter's? Scowling at himself and shoving the offending hand in his pocket, Draco began pacing around his room, his anxiety growing.  
  
"Calm down, you prat," he admonished, throwing a scathing glare at the mirror, which had long since learned to be silent unless consulted. "This is a dead cert. They'll give you an easy task, because you're a Malfoy, and there's no question of your power and loyalty."  
  
As he began his third revolution around his spacious floor, the door suddenly opened. Draco whirled around, accustomed to his father's unannounced entries, and felt his face slip into its self-confident smirk he always wore at Hogwarts.  
  
"Good evening, father," Draco greeted calmly.  
  
"Draco." His father stood tall and proud before him, his eyes appraising Draco with the utmost scrutiny. Draco had long ago learned not to flush under that sharp gaze, and he stood up straighter, trying to lend height to his small frame. "The Dark Lord has summoned you."  
  
Something icy cold slammed into Draco's stomach and he flinched.  
  
The door slammed shut behind Father. Draco briefly wondered if his father would threaten him, but the senior Malfoy did not step closer. Of course, Draco thought darkly, He wouldn't want to show any feeling. After all, I'm only his son.  
  
"Tonight is the night I have prepared you for your entire life, Draco," his father spoke, chin raised high. "The Dark Lord expects the utmost deliverance from you. You will not disappoint him. Nor me. If you fail, you will be a disgrace to the Malfoy name."  
  
"Yes, Father." Draco kept his expressionless gaze trained on his father. He had heard this speech many times before. His entire life. Do not fail; do not tarnish the Malfoy name. Or he would be cast out-if he was lucky.  
  
"You will be summoned shortly. Prepare yourself." And with that his father disappeared through the door, leaving Draco alone again.  
  
So. It was finally here. Draco stood stock still in the center of his chamber, listening to the spatter of rain on his window.  
  
~*~*~  
  
It had started raining, but Ginny could not here it. She stared unseeingly at the far wall of the study where she had been held prisoner for hours. Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy, and the other Death Eaters had left her with the Dementor; she had lost all sense of time when she'd plunged back into the icy grayness of her worst memories. At one point, Nagini, who was full and sleepy from her hunt, had replaced the Dementor.  
  
Now the great snake was curled on her rug, sleeping soundly, or so it appeared to Ginny. Every so often a ripple would pass through the long, scaly body, the red tongue would flick out, and then Nagini would still again.  
  
However, Ginny was barely aware of Voldemort's dozing pet. She had fallen into a sort of trance, the effects of the Dementor and Cruciatus Curse still lingering in her mind and body. Tom Riddle rose out of the diary before her, that odd red glint in his eyes. She felt his hand travel down her arm, invisible, his palm almost tenderly laying itself over the top of her hand, and then fiery coolness, a burning, as his hand slipped into hers.  
  
She recalled everything so clearly, her body remembering how easy it was to be controlled, craving that blissful oblivion.  
  
And then she would realize what was happening. Sharp, angry pain would jolt through her, but Ginny refused to cry out. Nausea would pass over her, but she could not retch with an empty stomach. Dizzy but aware, she would fight to stay completely conscious and watch Nagini for as long as she could, but then her eyes would slide to the wall and she could feel those invisible fingers caressingly moving over and through her body . . .  
  
The door suddenly flung open, just as Ginny was slipping. Nagini hissed loudly, arching up, clearly angry that her sleep had been disturbed. Ginny lunged against her restraints.  
  
"Bite!"  
  
With a triumphant hiss, Nagini struck.  
  
Ginny heard a loud shout of pain, and then, "Impedimenta!"  
  
"No! Stop!" Ginny shrieked. Something like a whiplash sliced through her, but she ignored the pain as her eyes clearly saw what had happened.  
  
Nagini was curling back, her fangs still dripping with venom, her ruby eyes staring, bewildered, at Macnair's fallen form. The Death Eater's wand had slipped out of his trembling fingers, and Ginny could see blood oozing from two identical wounds in his thigh.  
  
"Nagini," breathed Ginny, her ears roaring over her pounding heart. "Back off."  
  
The great snake's body shuddered and recoiled. She then turned to gaze quizzically at Ginny, as if asking what had just happened. Ginny stared into the mesmerizing, intelligent eyes, trying to grapple a sense of what had just happened.  
  
Riddle . . . he'd been taking over her again . . . She shuddered at the dark impulses that had ripped through her body the moment she'd ordered Nagini to attack.  
  
"It wasn't me, it wasn't me," Ginny chanted under her breath, her eyes darting from Nagini to the motionless Macnair. "It wasn't me, it wasn't me!"  
  
"Macnair! Where is that fool?" someone was shouting, their voice getting louder. "Macnair! How long does it take to fetch-" The door was flung open as another Death Eater came rushing through the threshold. "What--?"  
  
"It wasn't me! IT WASN'T ME! IT WASN'T ME!"  
  
"What in the-LUCIUS! Get in here quick!"  
  
"IT WASN'T ME, IT WASN'T ME, IT WASN'T ME!"  
  
"Nott, what the hell do you think you're doing? What is it-bloody-well, check him!"  
  
"He's . . . he's dead."  
  
"IT WASN'T ME, IT WASN'T ME, IT WASN'T ME!"  
  
"Get the Dark Lord-and shut her up!"  
  
"Petrificus Totalus!"  
  
Ginny's screams died instantly as her body was seized by the spell. Hysteria still consumed her as more Death Eaters clamored into the study, cursing under their breaths at the sight of Macnair's dead body and the lethal green pus forming around his wound.  
  
"How did--?" questioned one Death Eater, a woman.  
  
"The girl can speak Parseltongue," said Nott quietly, his wand pointed uneasily at Nagini's passive form. "She ordered the snake to attack him!"  
  
"But that snake only obeys Master!" cried the witch.  
  
"Obviously not!"  
  
"What do we do?" mumbled a deep man's voice, although slowly and confusedly.  
  
"I will tell the Dark Lord," Lucius spoke up, having kept his distance from Macnair. "Nott, bring the girl as Macnair was ordered to do. Don't revive her until Master orders it so."  
  
Ginny, immobilized, could do nothing as Nott levitated her out of the room. She was unable to squirm away as she floated low over Macnair's dead body. I killed a man! I killed him, I killed him! It wasn't me, but it was! Riddle wouldn't have wanted a dark follower dead! I did it, I did it! I killed!  
  
Unable to open her mouth, Ginny released her scream inside her, and hot tears spattered the dull black of Macnair's boots.  
  
~*~*~  
  
A slight wind had picked up with the rain. Draco gripped his wand tightly in his right hand as he stared out into the darkness, mesmerized by the flickering light at the very center of the deep depression in the earth. Black shadows swayed slowly in a semicircle, enclosing what had once been the manor's back garden. His mother had never vocally protested the destruction of her prized garden that she had orchestrated through the house elves. Draco knew his mother wasn't foolish; she was honored to host the Dark Lord.  
  
It was time, Draco knew; time to prepare himself to become completely devoted to the Dark Lord, immersed in his power.  
  
Draco rolled his tongue in his mouth. It was thick and dry and tasted foul. But he would not drink the water from the goblet on his bedside table. He had not eaten or drank anything since he had left Hogwarts. Appetite and thirst had left him.  
  
The flickering light down below suddenly glowed brighter, and Draco saw small black shadows gathering around it.  
  
It was time.  
  
Draco broke into a cold sweat.  
  
Why had he pushed this out of his mind for so long?  
  
He wiped his sleeve across his brow. Just as he was about to turn away from the gathering Death Eaters, he pressed his nose closer to the window. A body was being floated across the grass.  
  
A shudder passed through him. Draco quickly turned away from the window.  
  
The door opened with an ominous draught. Rigid, Draco did not meet his father's eyes as the senior Malfoy beckoned him forward.  
  
It was time.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Unable to scream or struggle, Ginny's hysteria mounted and gathered as she was levitated through Malfoy Manor, surrounded by black cloaked and masked Death Eaters. Then she was attacked with a sudden violent fear as cold rain splattered down on her face, an even colder wind biting her skin. She heard the soft rustle of the hem of her nightgown brushing the grass below her.  
  
A strange glow seemed to color the air like smoke, but unlike any smoke Ginny had ever seen. It seemed to move of its own accord, not just drift; it was alive.  
  
She was nearly in the center of a sort of bowl in the earth. She saw swaying trees and hoods towering over her. On her left side was a silent white-hot fire that shot out green sparks. It was unlike anything she'd ever seen; mesmerized, her eyes fastened on it.  
  
The only sound was the wind and rain.  
  
After long minutes of silence, Ginny sensed a sort of shudder ripple through the cloaked shadows around her. Her eyes jerked away, blinking, from the dazzling flames, but she could not see the very edge of the circle that faced Malfoy Manor, where the black ring was parting and bowing.  
  
And then he was before her. Gazing hungrily down upon her, like a spider crawling down its web to its ensnared prey. Ginny snapped her eyes shut, a scream rattling her body, begging to be released.  
  
With the a faint swish of a wand, it burst from her body until she could taste blood in her throat. Hovering above the wet grass, soaked through from the rain, Ginny screamed and screamed, her body arching with it, until every pore was filled with her terror. When nothing else exuded from her lips but the gurgling of blood at the back of her throat, Ginny went limp and lifeless.  
  
"Have you quite finished?" said Voldemort quietly. Several Death Eaters chuckled uneasily. Ginny, dizzy and nauseated, felt her body turn upward, her toes just brushing the grass. Her head snapped up so she was staring directly at the glaring red eyes. "You killed Macnair. I am pleased that you have broken. However, I cannot overlook the loss of one of my most able-bodied men."  
  
Ginny stiffened, expecting the Cruciatus Curse. Maybe it would kill her this time. She was already mad with pain.  
  
"No, my little Ginny," whispered Lord Voldemort. "Not just yet. I have another purpose for you tonight. However, if you are cooperative, I promise you will only be tortured once."  
  
Ginny had not the mind to think. A numbness was paralyzing her as she hung suspended in the air before Voldemort. She was filled with no emotion. All she wanted was to die . . .  
  
"My Death Eaters!" Voldemort hailed. "Tonight I take another step toward immortality and absolute power! But tonight another may be welcomed into our midst, if he proves himself worthy of the honor."  
  
The Death Eaters parted as two figures approached from the imposing shadow of Malfoy Manor. Ginny recognized the lean form of Lucius Malfoy, who strode purposefully just behind the shoulder of a familiar, slight figure. Not until the two had reached the edge of the circle did she realize who it was. Something sparked deep within Ginny, filling her vacancy with a blistering rush.  
  
Voldemort released the spell holding her and she crumpled to the ground.  
  
~*~*~  
  
If Draco could be outside his body and mind, he would be presently shouting at himself to relax his body. But he could not. His mind was frantically blank as his father unceremoniously pushed him through the circle of Death Eaters and into the illuminating specter of the fire. In one swift glance he saw the Dark Lord standing tall and dark, the strange fire behind him, and Ginny Weasley suspended as a puppet with invisible strings.  
  
He wanted to sneer in satisfaction at witnessing the pathetic fate of a Weasley. But his lips refused to move and his insides turned over.  
  
"My lord," said Draco's father, his soft, reverent voice like a shout in Draco's ear.  
  
Draco's pulse bolted as the Dark Lord turned with sinister grace to gaze upon the Malfoy heir. It was the first Draco had ever seen the Dark Lord so close and in his direct gaze. Coldness washed over Draco, but he did not shiver, could not shiver. An unspeakable, immeasurable power seemed to ebb from the snake-like eyes, a power that controlled everything, even him, at the simplest whim.  
  
"Come forward," spoke the Dark Lord commandingly. At the moment he spoke, Ginny Weasley dropped to the ground with a soft thud; Draco knew this was deliberate, not a mere distraction of magic.  
  
He stepped forward, fighting the urge to turn and run as fast and far as he could. When he was only two steps away, he suddenly dropped to his knees and kissed the black hem of the Dark Lord's robes. He knew not where the motion had come from, only that it had to be done.  
  
"Stand, boy."  
  
Draco stood. He still wanted to run.  
  
His father swiftly kissed the Dark Lord's hem and robes as well. Then he dropped back to close the circle of Death Eaters.  
  
He couldn't run now.  
  
Cowardice, Draco scoffed, complete cowardice! Under that piercing gaze, Draco forced his shoulders straight, gripped his wand tight in his right hand, and raised his chin proudly. He was not a coward!  
  
A small smile seemed to curve along the slit of a mouth. The Dark Lord nodded and then turned slightly away from Draco to address the silent but alert Death Eaters. However, he did not speak, but simply stared pointedly into each individual mask, as if confirming or enforcing a secret. Draco stood stock still, afraid someone would notice his pounding heart.  
  
"Now." The Dark Lord had completed his survey and fastened his stare on Draco.  
  
Father said he could read minds. Draco wanted desperately to look away, but knew that would be accounted as a weakness.  
  
There was a long silence as the Dark Lord and Draco stared wordlessly at one another. Then the Dark Lord stepped to the side, sweeping an arm down to the crumpled, shivering form beside the dancing flames.  
  
Draco's mind froze. Ginny Weasley lay curled and broken on the ground, her pale, freckled body visible beneath the thing, soaked cotton nightdress. He could see bruises like handprints forming on her arms and the shadows where her body curved at bent joints. He wanted to look away but could not. As she lay on her side, he saw too much; the ragged rise and fall of her chest revealed barely contained sobs that her down-turned face was trying to hide.  
  
Finally, Draco looked away. What was he supposed to do? he wondered vaguely, staring anxiously around at the black wall of hooded wizards and witches. Risking a glance down at Ginny Weasley, he felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.  
  
Was he supposed to . . . to force himself on her?  
  
Feeling a weakening in the knees, Draco stared down at the shaking body, slowly working the task through his mind. If he had to do it . . . she was not unattractive . . . and it would kill Potter . . . Wouldn't that place the Weasleys where they belong? Rubbish. He recalled how sharp Ginny Weasley's tongue had been whenever he had insulted Potter in her presence. She always treated him with indifference, except for when she gave him a fierce look of disdain. As if she were above him! No one was above Draco Malfoy, no one-especially not a Weasley.  
  
He could have her. Force her to regard him with fear and anger. It would be so perfect. Hurt Potter, hurt the Weasleys. He could overpower her. She was small and slender, weakened by whatever the Dark Lord had done to her, and he was sure she would soon be submissive. Or come to her senses and realize they were surrounded by Death Eaters.  
  
Surrounded by Death Eaters . . . Draco's eyes flew around the circle again, and his stomach gave another roll. He looked down at Ginny Weasley again, his brief moment of confidence and power quickly evaporating. He could almost get everything he wanted from her: revenge on Potter, trashing the Weasleys . . . but he would not dominate her. She was already broken and damaged.  
  
How very weak and telling, Draco thought, trying to feel disgusted and disappointed. But something else was seeping in, threatening to overwhelm him.  
  
Relief.  
  
Shoving the emotion angrily away, Draco turned questioningly towards his father. There was no hint behind that dark mask.  
  
"You are questioning what you must do," said the Dark Lord suddenly, making Draco jump and snap his head around. "A Death Eater must never doubt or question what I have appointed him to do." He paused. "Failure, Draco Malfoy, will be more painful than what you must inflict upon others."  
  
Draco quickly turned back to Ginny. So, he must hurt her in some way. The idea of rape seemed unable to enter his mind again. How could he convince the Dark Lord he was powerful enough and ready to become a Death Eater? By inflicting as much pain as possible upon Ginny Weasley and showing his control over the Dark Arts.  
  
Draco had never used the Cruciatus Curse before.  
  
He had to mean the incantation with his entire being, take joy in the writhing agony of his victim. His father had described the euphoria of power before, inviting Draco to practice his skill on creatures to build his power for Mudbloods and Muggles. Only now did Draco realize what his father meant by preparation.  
  
His wand hand began to tremble. Just do it! She's a Weasley, you hate them enough to watch them scream for mercy. And imagine how it'll just kill Potter!  
  
Draco raised his wand.  
  
Ginny Weasley's head snapped up as her body heaved itself up in one swift movement. She raised her chin defiantly, her torso raised on shaking arms as she stared Draco squarely in the eye.  
  
His wand trembled before him, his fingers slipping on their grip. No one had ever looked at him like that, nor had he ever noticed how hard soft brown eyes could be. She glared at him with a contradicting mix of emotions. The disgust seemed to be fueled by anger, like coppery flames erupting around her pupils, but a ring of fear edged around the iris. What struck Draco the most was the pity.  
  
Then her eyes seemed to grow redder and Draco fought the urge to back away.  
  
You make me sick, her eyes seemed to say, boring into his as the Dark Lord's had moments before. You think hurting me will make you powerful? You think I will fear you? You are weak. You make me sick.  
  
Draco gave his head a small, hard shake. He was not hearing that voice in his head, so sharp, so snake-like.  
  
The vehemence in her face suddenly vanished as Ginny gave a small, convulsive twitch. Yet her eyes never left his, and he saw something else, something that should have empowered him. The fear was showing through her anger. She was staring at him, silently pleading, begging, but it wasn't for his mercy . . .  
  
"Your pain will be greater than hers if you fail," whispered the Dark Lord from behind his ear.  
  
Draco realized suddenly that his wand point had dropped several more inches. If he'd hexed Ginny, he would have only hit the grass in front of her. Feeling his grip slip in his sweaty palms, Draco clenched tightly to the handle, raising the point to Ginny's chest.  
  
Her chin went up again and her body stiffened, but the eerie redness did not inflame her fierce gaze. She seemed to have recovered from herself, and he saw that disdainful pity and grim acceptance taking over.  
  
Draco felt his insides stop churning and turn icy cold. He could not dominate her or cause her incredible pain. Not any that she had not felt before. She did not fear him, but something else. And even if she was unbroken or begging him for mercy, he knew, deep down, that he could not do it.  
  
The rigidity of his body became weak and shaky. He breathed in quick, shallow breaths and felt the strength leave his arm. Ginny Weasley's large eyes widened as his hand dropped slack to his side.  
  
Several voices cried out, but Draco barely had time to register the Unforgivable incantation before he was sent crashing, screaming to the ground.  
  
~*~*~  
  
"Your son is weak, Lucius."  
  
Draco was acutely aware of the painful pricks raining down upon him and poking up from the ground. Voices echoed agonizingly in his ears as he gradually became aware of everything around him.  
  
"Yes, my lord. He has often been a disappointment. However, he learns quickly with pain."  
  
Anger rose above the ebbing pain, and Draco opened his eyes to a blurry, still glowing darkness around him. Feet away stood his father and the Dark Lord.  
  
"He is awake," said the Dark Lord. "On your feet, Draco."  
  
Making not a sound, Draco rose stiffly to his feet; he wanted to cry out against the throbbing of his body. Just as he straightened, he saw Ginny laying nearby, her body arched with her arms flung out, her neck twisted. She was unconscious, her face pinched in agony.  
  
"You have learned your lesson," the Dark Lord spoke, drawing Draco away from Ginny's still form. "You must reflect on what you have learned. Tomorrow night you must prove yourself worthy of my, ah, forgiveness."  
  
"Yes, my lord," Draco said huskily, his throat raw. He knelt down and kissed the robes and then turned to leave, again somehow knowing it was the Dark Lord's wish.  
  
Just as the Death Eaters were parting for him, Lord Voldemort called, "Oh, and Draco," Draco turned towards him, feeling his insides writhe, "I do not let live those who I do not forgive."  
  
A/N: Hopefully the next chapter will come to you before August 22nd, when I move into my dorm. If not, I'll just have to skip an orientation workshop and finish it! ( 


	10. Plot, Passage, and Surrender

A/N: Guess what? My new goal is to finish this _story_ before August 22nd! I have another two chapters that are nearly ready for posting. And there may be two chapters after that, depending on how long the details and actions come out.

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Chapter Ten

__

"Plot, Surrender, and Passage"

Dawn seemed to approach slowly over the moor behind Malfoy Manor. Draco watched the gray light creep over the dark treetops from his tower bedchamber window. He was not banished from the rest of the house, but he did not want to make his presence felt. However, when he could keep still no longer, Draco stealthily traveled the many corridors of his manor.

He heard snippets of conversation from those unaware of his lurking presence. Ginny Weasley had become unconscious from the strain of the Cruciatus Curse, and the Dark Lord was infuriated that his plans were delayed.

But Draco was not so concerned with the Dark Lord's captive; it was his _own_ fate that concerned the Malfoy heir.

As Draco made his way toward the study that had become the Dark Lord's private quarters, he was passed, and ignored, by Nott and Lestrange. Their dark gazes flicked incidentally over Draco before fastening on something entirely else. Bitter resentment sparked inside, and Draco opened his mouth to demand respect—but then he snapped it shut.

He had heard his father's voice.

A prickle of excitement thrilled the hairs on the back of his neck. As far back as he could remember, Draco had played a game of espionage with his father. Sneaking around the house, especially when there had been "important business company," Draco had made a point of eavesdropping. When caught, he was severely punished, but his father's cold eyes gleamed with pride and encouragement; a word of correction on technique and advice on the art of invisibility (without a cloak) was often spoken just before a house elf was called to see to Draco's wounds.

Two doors down from the end study, where a Death Eater stood guard, a door was ajar. Pretending to be examining a fray in his robes, Draco leaned toward it. He was careful not to peer inside, lest his father spy him.

"—a disappointment, I know," Lucius was saying, his voice cutting into Draco with each syllable. "I had hoped, my lord, that his hate for Potter would provide a fervor. Perhaps if he had known what you discovered from the Weasley girl, he would have been more eager to act."

"Are you excusing Draco's weakness?" questioned the Dark Lord.

"No, of course not, my lord," Lucius said quickly. "I was only lamenting on the unworthiness of my son."

Draco clenched his teeth at the disdainful, unclaiming way his father said "my son." _As if he's ashamed I sprang from his loins._

"Then," said the Dark Lord, a nasty tone in his voice, "you will not mourn the death of your son if he fails tonight."

"I have no other heir to pass on the Malfoy heritage or keep the family fortune. However, all my wealth has been promised to you, my lord. My only concern is continuing the purest bloodline."

Hearing this and knowing how truthfully and unemotionally his father spoke, Draco leaned slightly closer. It was of no surprise to him, however hard it smite. As he continued to listen, a plan began forming in his mind.

"What of the Weasley brat?" asked Lucius in a lower voice. "The potion will not keep much longer."

"Her faint was a setback, but she will be revived for tonight. Just before the dawn. I felt her break. She will surrender to me. And then all I need is Potter's blood and his death."

Draco sensed the conversation drawing to an end. Silently, he turned from the door, casting the slouched Death Eater a cursory glance. He had no doubt, whoever was under the hood, was dozing blissfully. 

With purpose driving out the hovering pain, Draco's plot began taking shape. And so he thought. He realized what his mistake had been before. Preparing meant thinking constantly about what he was going to do. If his mind had been trained, poised, for the action, he would have acted _without_ thinking when the actual opportunity arised. Such had happened at last night's meeting. Since he had refused to think on his task beforehand, he had been confronted with the decision in its presence. The reality caused him to _truly_ think about what he was about to do.

He would not fail again. 

Draco thought about what he was going to do. When the time came, he would have already made his decision and would not think about what his actions would bring.

As the morning became day, he made his unassuming rounds through the manor, gathering information from the careless mutterings of his father's 'comrades', and threatening a house elf or two (not that they weren't happy to spoil the happenings at Malfoy Manor). No one seemed to care or notice him; they all knew he was a dead man walking.

But, Draco smiled to himself as he slipped out of the manor library, he was not going to lay down his life without his father failing first. Draco Malfoy had learned about retribution from an early age and the sting of shame even earlier.

~*~*~

__

She was surrounded by light that was not green nor black, but both. It formed as shadows and smoke, swirling around her with graspy, wispy fingers. It seemed to lift her, make her weightless, but press leaden weights upon her weary body. She felt as if she were sinking, drowning, and she wished it were so.

The darkest shadow of all turned pale as it moved between her and the cauldron bubbling with thick, black liquid. The stench of rotting flesh filled her nose.

"Now," said Lord Voldemort, peering through the swirling smoke, "you are mine, Ginny Weasley. A willing sacrifice."

"Yes. I give myself to you."

A black line slashed the clammy whiteness of his terrible face. "You are mine! Then I will have Potter." Voldemort turned away from her, barking, "Wormtail! The potion!" 

Wormtail scuttled into view, hunched and trembling. He dipped a ladle into the hissing cauldron, pouring the thick contents into a silver goblet. An eerie screech emanated from the potion, and the smoky fingers seemed to recoil before unfurling again around her. 

Holding the goblet aloft, Voldemort began to chant in a reverent but soft voice, "Restore my life, I bind eternal youth,

"Willing sacrifice of my slave, make life a slave!

"Reficio immolo mortis!"

The unearthly screech rose in pitch, seeming to circle closer and closer around her. Then it fell silent as Voldemort swallowed the potion, a sharp, red glow jumping from his sallow skin. Without further word, he turned on her, his long-fingered hands grasping her head. 

"Aperio transmoveo!"

Retching, scratching pain sliced through her head, driving deeper and deeper inside her. She felt the very core of her being ripped from her body . . . and then again the strange black and green light.

The pain was gone. There was nothing. Instead, Voldemort and Wormtail stood around the wailing cauldron, another body suspended in the smoke. The body was limp, but not dead. Messy, jet black hair seemed to reach for the green and black tendrils of smoke, and furious bright green eyes glared hatefully at Voldemort. One arm was extended over the cauldron, a dark line of blood running from the bend of his elbow, each drop initiating another shriek from the bubbling black potion.

"The dagger," Voldemort commanded, hissing through his teeth. Instantly the blade appeared in his white hand. Without hesitation he placed the shining blade's tip, already marked with blood, into his arm. He allowed seven drops to fall into the cauldron. Then he quickly covered the wound and moved to the boy suspended before him.

"I defeat my foe, I conquer death!" he shrilled, uncovering his wound as he raised it to the boy's glaring face. With his other arm, he flicked his wand and the boy's mouth opened. Blood dripped down into the gaping crevice, and the boy's eyes darkened with revulsion. Another flick of the long wand, and the boy's mouth closed, his Adam's apple bobbing as his throat constricted to swallow.

Bending his neck ever so slightly, Voldemort drank the boy's freely flowing blood. He paused once to say, "His blood is mine, and mine is his! Bound with death, it cannot destroy me! Dormitor defigo mortis!"

And then he drank again. Blood spilled down the extended arm, much of it passing from the lipless, sucking mouth to fall into the awaiting cauldron. As the boy grew paler and paler, fiery light dying in his eyes, a sharp, painful glow began to grow brighter and brighter around Voldemort.

Again, he paused to shriek an incantation. 

"Remove strength from foe

"Take will from slave

"My death to my foe

"My slave's life to me! 

"Transmoveo!"

The boy's eyes slowly fell shut, and his head rolled to the side. Gradually his chest stopped rising. The blood stopped flowing.

Voldemort ran his forked tongue over the remaining stream of blood before it could dry. He paused a moment to stare at his enemy and conqueror, now defeated and lifeless before him. Then he turned silently to his obedient servant, who had begun filling seven goblets full of the black potion, which had turned green from the boy's blood. The servant flinched at the caking blood smeared across the flat whiteness of his master's manically grinning face.

"Death and life are one!

"Neither can defeat me!"

Voldemort drank gluttonously from the seven goblets. When he had drained every last one, he shrieked triumphantly into the throbbing green and black swirls, "I am immortal! Immortalis!"

With a resounding clap of thunder, the world flashed a brilliant, frightening green.

~*~*~

She might have woke screaming, if only her body had the strength and will. Just as the horrible blinding light faded, icy cold slammed into her body, jogging every single fear, pain, and dread within. Beyond hysteria, unable to even feel the emotion, she lay silently on her side, curled against the painful stone wall.

It was completely black, but she knew where she was. Back in the cell. The first one.

It was going to happen all over again.

No, it wasn't.

Dread, fear, and pain no longer penetrated her mind and body. She knew she had no right to feel those things, to feel anything at all. Because she had broken. With cruel clarity and finality she knew she had broken. Riddle's vice-like grip on her was beyond overpowering her; she was too willing to dispose of him to feel his power.

Life without Riddle could not exist, and she had known this before the last Cruciatus Curse had hit her. She'd known it as Malfoy had gazed down upon her. Without Riddle she would die, and death was what she wanted. If she were not killed, she would kill herself.

Death . . .

Only relief could be associated with it. She would not know the shame of her weakness, nor witness what she had seen in her dream—she would be dead by then. Gone.

Maybe, just maybe she would die before Riddle could escape her body. And then he would die within her, unable to leave, unable to prey.

Should she hold her breath? Or bash her head against the stone wall? Strangle herself with her nightdress? At least she will have destroyed Riddle. He had destroyed her.

But revenge took too much will, too much strength. Riddle had won. Revenge did not interest her. Only the end.

~*~*~

So many days had felt like the longest day of their lives, but today was freshest and longest in Harry, Ron, and Hermione's minds. Neither Harry and Ron slept well, too anxious for the coming day when the Order would launch an attack on Malfoy Manor. Upon stumbling down the boys' staircase, they quickly discovered that Hermione was just as red-eyed and weary. Wordlessly they had gone to the Great Hall for breakfast, hoping to spot Professor McGonagall.

However, the Transfiguration professor was missing from the high table. Dumbledore sat serenely in his noble chair, deep in conversation with Professor Flitwick.

"What d'you reckon?" asked Ron in a lowered voice, gazing at the bent heads of the professors.

"Well, it would be too obvious for Dumbledore _and_ McGonagall to be missing," Hermione reasoned while pouring herself some orange juice, and then completely ignoring it. "Any spy would be less alarmed by McGonagall being absent or late, but they'd definitely notice Dumbledore. We were told _she_ would speak to us, so I'm sure she'll be back. Being gone for classes would certainly draw attention."

Ron stared at her and then finally shrugged. As he played with his eggs, he kept an eye on the table, and another on Harry. As much as he was disturbed by the grisly book, Ron had a feeling that Harry was even more unsettled by _Death Do Part_. Shuddering involuntarily at the memory, Ron's fork scraped across his plate, causing all three of them to wince.

"Oh!" said Hermione suddenly. "How did last night go? I'd almost forgotten." Ron shot her an incredulous look. "Well, I _was_ on duty, Ron. We caught six second years trying to sneak into an unused passage. Two tried some hexes, so we had to get them to Madam Pomfrey and then alert the Heads of Houses."

"It was more than one house?" said Harry, not at all sounding very interested. He had buttered some toast without taking a single bite.

"Ravenclaw and Slytherin."

"Well, you'd never see Gryffindors and Slytherins mucking about together," Ron muttered derisively, shooting the Slytherin table a nasty glare.

"And it is that attitude, Ron, that causes so much trouble!" Hermione chided. 

"You mean, _Slytherin_ causes so much trouble—"

"No, I don't. Slytherin _and_ Gryffindor. You don't see such animosity between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff."

"Gryffindor doesn't go kidnapping Slytherins!" Ron nearly shouted, causing several Gryffindors to stare wide-eyed at him. He turned red at the ears and lowered his voice. "Hermione, _don't_ say another word about Slytherin not being all-bad. Not now."

Hermione opened her mouth as if to say exactly that, but quickly closed it and folded her hands in her lap. Then she glanced surreptitiously towards the staff table and said, "Oh, I wish McGonagall would get here!"

They did not see McGonagall until the afternoon in Transfiguration. By that time Hermione had questioned Harry and Ron again about the book. Dissatisfied by their lack of progress, she began to lecture them until Ron shut her with, "How would _you_ like to see someone eat someone else?!"

Wanting to reach McGonagall as soon as possible, Harry, Ron, and Hermione skipped break between classes and went straight to the classroom. The classroom was closed until the bell, so they waited impatiently outside. Finally, they heard the clicking of thick, sensible heels and turned as one to see Professor McGonagall striding purposefully up the corridor towards her classroom.

"Professor! Professor!" they burst, jumping to their feet as she reached the door.

"Would you hush! Now, really!" McGonagall gave them a silencing look as she unlocked her door and stepped into the classroom, apparently unaware of three teenagers tumbling in after her. Without a glance towards them, she placed her briefcase on her desk and sat down, dipping a quill as if to write out her lesson plan.

Ron swallowed the urge to yell and stepped up to the desk, feeling Hermione and Harry press in behind him. "Professor?" he asked, trying to sound polite and patient.

McGonagall did not glance up as she shuffled some marked essays in front of her. "Can I help you with something, Mr. Weasley? Perhaps your essay on complex vertebrae transformation?"

Ron pressed his fingers into her desk. Was she barking mad?

"If you need help, speak to me after class. That goes for anyone else who needs assistance."

Ron stared, but McGonagall did not look up from the essay she had begun to mark. Had she just said what he thought she said? He opened his mouth to speak, to have definite clarification, but then he felt a tug on his shoulder.

"Come on," said Hermione as the bell started to ring, signaling the end of break. 

When they had sat down, Harry whispered, "She'll tell us after class. _After_ class! It's a double period!"

Ron noticed that Harry was looking feverish again. His face was alarmingly pale, but his eyes were burning fiercely bright. It hurt to look at him, really. If Ron hadn't known Harry better, he might have thought his friend utterly mad. But he knew Harry, and knew that look well, and also knew, despite trying to be loyal to the thought of his friend, that Harry honestly _was_ mad. When he got the way he was now, looking as if he'd fall faint or spring into action, it was almost impossible to stop him. At least there was a plan now, at least action was going to be taken. It made it easier to wait. Hopefully that would stop Harry from being stupid.

"You're _not_ doing anything but what Professor McGonagall sets for us in class," hissed Hermione, trying to pin Harry with a stern glare. Students had begun drifting into the classroom, Neville casting them a sympathetic yet curious eye before sitting down beside Seamus and Dean.

"What?" Harry seemed to jerk. He blinked several times. 

"Oh, really," Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes. "You have _no chance_ of getting out of this classroom. Even if you _did_, Dumbledore would stop you if McGonagall could not. And if you managed to get out of Hogwarts, the Death Eaters would get you. Now, wouldn't _that_ just jeopardize what the Order is about to do? They don't need to rescue _two_ people—"

"What makes you think I'd let myself get caught?" Harry said wonderingly, a slightly amused look on his face. However, Ron thought he also seemed rather affronted and dismayed that Hermione knew exactly what he'd been considering.

"Honestly, Harry! You haven't even taken your N.E.W.T.s yet!"

"Which is by far the stupidest thing you have ever said," Ron snorted. Hermione's cheeks turned pink, but she looked rather satisfied with herself as Harry even cracked a grin. "Oh, Harry," Ron went on in a higher voice, as McGonagall called class to order, "you better not do anything . . . _dangerous_! You're not _qualified_!"

~*~*~

Harry frowned at the stony-eyed cat he was supposed to be turning into a dog. The gray feline stared back, obviously offended at the suggestion it should become such a thing. "Come one," he coaxed, "being a dog isn't _all_ that bad. My godfather can do it. He loves it." He reached out a hand to scratch the cat's head, but she hissed fiercely and he quickly backed off.

Sitting back in his chair, Harry surveyed his classmates' attempts. Dean's cat had beagle ears and looked rather sour about it. Neville was trying to coax his calico kitten from atop McGonagall's bookshelf, all the while glancing pleadingly at the professor, who sat regally on her desk, steadily changing from a cat to a dog and back again. Amazingly enough, even Hermione seemed to be having troubles, since her dog was still meowing and sporting whiskers.

Running a hand through his hair, Harry eyed his cat dolefully. "Believe me, the last thing I want to do is change cats into dogs," he said. "I don't _need_ this N.E.W.T. to be useful and do what I ought to do."

The gray cat shifted from her haunches and stretched luxuriously, letting Harry see every single claw. Then she twitched her long tail, arched her back, and leapt deftly onto his unsuspecting lap. Harry, surprised, stared at the suddenly friendly cat for a moment, expecting her to attack him. However, she gave a soft meow and butted her head against his chest, a low purr rumbling in her slender chest.

"Oh, so you agree?" Harry slowly began scratching the cat under her chin, wincing slightly as she kneaded her paws into his thigh with pleasure. Yet it was comforting. He felt calmer. At least someone else thought this class period was a waste of time and rather ridiculous. The urge to race from the castle still ran hot through him, but he felt steadier and more able to think. He still felt very weird about the sudden urge to joke at the beginning of class. What was wrong with him if he wanted to laugh at a time like this?

__

One minute I want nothing more than to hex a few Death Eaters, and the next I just want to crack stupid jokes.

"You stupid beast! AARGH!"

Harry's cat let out a shrieking hiss and leaped from his lap, but not before digging in her claws. Wincing at the sharp pain, Harry—and everyone else—looked around to see Ron's head completely engulfed by a mass of orange and white fur that was spitting viciously at anyone who approached.

Once McGonagall had taken human form and disentangled Ron from the animal, Harry could understandably see why the cat was so upset. Although the body was completely feline, the poor creature sported a beaver's head. When the cat was returned to his natural form and soothed, McGonagall called an end to the practical lesson and had them all take notes on why their transfigurations failed. Not a moment too soon, the bell rang and all the Gryffindors but Harry, Ron, and Hermione quickly left, wanting salve for their many scratches.

"All right, you three," McGonagall said when no one else remained.

Quickly, they crowded around her desk, where she sat looking very weary. "At six o'clock tonight, you will meet me at Dumbledore's office. You will be going outside Hogwarts, but not with the Order. There is a headquarters you may wait at and know information as quickly as possible."

The aging witch placed her spectacles on the desk and squeezed the bridge of her nose, as if it ached. "I will have you know that _I_ do not approve of you three leaving the protection of the school. Even if the Death Eaters on the barrier knew what was about to happen and attacked . . ." She paused and looked older still as she replaced her spectacles. "You would still be safer here.

"But it is not my decision. Headmaster Dumbledore believes there is less chance of any . . . _irrational_ behavior if you were more involved. However," and now McGonagall drew her wand, "not a single one of you will be participating in the operation. You will be magically bound."

Harry exchanged raised eyebrows with Ron and Hermione, who looked similarly bewildered. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, Mr. Potter," said McGonagall, standing up and coming around the desk, "that we are taking a precaution. You will be magically bound by oath to the rendezvous unless a member of the Order orders you to leave. And then you can only go where they tell you until the bound is lifted."

Harry's insides turned cold. It sounded almost like Imperius. "But what if something happens at the rendezvous?" What if he was given to a spy in the Order?

"Only the most trusted of the Order know of the location. You will not feel the spell except for if you try to leave."

Harry still didn't like it, but his desire to leave Hogwarts and know what was happening overpowered his paranoia. Nodding, he steeled himself for whatever the night would bring. As McGonagall cast the spell and he recited the oath, he concentrated on the thought of seeing Ginny alive and back at Hogwarts.

~*~*~

Six o'clock finally arrived, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione had positioned themselves outside of Dumbledore's office twenty minutes before McGonagall had instructed. However, their overly enthusiastic punctuality was to no avail, since Professor McGonagall arrived at precisely six to guide them into Dumbledore's office.

Harry wasn't surprised to find the office empty, since he'd been certain that Dumbledore had been absent all day planning things with the Order of the Phoenix. However, he was confused about _why_ they were to meet at the empty office.

Soon he discovered why. After piercing him, Ron, and Hermione with her sternest don't-you-dare-do-anything-I-wouldn't-approve-of look, Professor McGonagall led them through an entirely new area of Dumbledore's office Harry had never seen before. It seemed that a portrait of a sleeping lion had been tucked away, forgotten, in a back cranny of the circular room. In fact, when Harry blinked once, it had disappeared, and all he could see was a darkened shadow. But McGonagall stepped directly to the nook, and suddenly Harry could see the portrait again.

The lion's large, rounded ears barely peeped out from the massive red mane, but they flicked alertly as McGonagall cleared her throat. One eye, gold with fiery flecks, peeked open and squinted at them. Then he let out a yawn, flashing his powerful, sharp teeth, stretched, and then shook himself. Without any prompting, the beast's portrait swung open, revealing a darkened passage.

"Cool," whispered Ron from behind Harry.

"It may be of some interest to you three," said McGonagall, removing a torch from the wall and holding it aloft, "to know that Dumbledore has control of _all_ passages in and out of the school."

Harry thought he detected a twitch of a smirk on the strict professor's thin mouth, but it may have just been the flickering of the torch light. Trying his best to look innocent but contrite, he followed her into the passage, not really astonished by Dumbledore's knowledge and access to everything at Hogwarts. The wizard did have a knack for popping up suddenly.

The passage was surprisingly comfortable and well-ventilated. There was no need to crouch or duck, and although it was decidedly narrow, he didn't feel cramped or claustrophobic. It wasn't the first time magic had adjusted proportions for comfort. Harry was sure Dumbledore had enough height in this passage to wear his tallest of hats and the tip wouldn't brush the ceiling.

After about a minute, they came to a junction in the secret corridor. No less than nine archways surrounded them, dividing into every direction and angle, vertical drops and inclines, and even one that had the appearance of a window. Harry gaped, realizing that he was staring out at the settling evening on Number Four, Privet Drive.

"This way, Potter," McGonagall said briskly.

Harry tore his eyes away from his summer 'home' and hurried after the others, feeling distinctly unsettled. Was that all Dumbledore had to do? Pop into jolly ol' Number Four to check up on Harry? How did he get back? Could _Harry_ have somehow escaped the Dursleys by jumping through this window and into Dumbledore's secret passage? Speculating made Harry very angry and bitter, and quickly he turned his attention back to the matter at hand—which was avoiding running into the wall.

"Harry?" Hermione whispered, having noticed how Harry had barely missed the sharp turn in the new passage.

Harry shook his head, trying not to stumble as the floor dropped into a steep but not impossible slant, as if they were traveling downhill. He had the distinct feeling of being underground, perhaps tunneling under a mountain, but they couldn't have possibly been out of the school yet. Perhaps it might be a way of obliterating staircase, he thought, concentrating on his foot placement.

And then, quite suddenly, they had reached the end.

"We'll be stepping outside in a moment," said McGonagall very quietly. She tapped her wand against something hard, like stone. Nothing happened. And then, quite suddenly, the torch flame exploded with a loud _whooh_, and Fawkes spread his great wings before settling proudly on McGonagall's shoulders. Smiling faintly in greeting, McGonagall faced the wall once again.

Fawkes uttered a high shrill that echoed without distance. With a soft _whoosh_, evening light seemed to wax before them like a moon, first as a crescent until it was nearly full. A chill November breeze brushed Harry's face, lifting his fringe off his scar. He rubbed it anxiously, wondering about its painless presence all day. Standing in the dark corridor, he gazed out into the darkening night and noticed that no stars or moon provided any light.

It was going to be a very dark night.

"Come along, then," said McGonagall. Her torch had been extinguished and Fawkes had lifted from her shoulder.

Together they stepped into the cold night. Harry shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him, noticing that Hermione and Ron's breath formed in the air. They gazed wonderingly at one another. 

The passage had come out to the side of a hill dotted with large, white rocks behind the school. Above them Hogwarts' many turrets towered blackly against the dull blue-dray of the darkening evening, only illuminated by tiny square spots of yellow light. Below them was a steep drop into a dry creek bed, which must have fed into the lake in the warmer seasons. Now it crackled and sparked at the bottom from the magic of the barrier. On the other side rose the beginnings of a mountain that didn't look too inviting for a hike.

The soft _whoosh_ that had opened the tunnel sounded behind Harry, and he whirled around to see a cluster of rocks on the mound of earth roll smoothly over the darkened exit, completely camouflaging the secret passage.

"I've never been back here before," Ron whispered, leaning towards Harry.

"Of course, you haven't," said Hermione, also whispering. "We're out of bounds! Didn't you notice the wall?" She pointed, and Harry had to peer closely into the black fortress that was Hogwarts to see the high stone wall that bordered Hogwarts' grounds. Rarely was he actually aware of it, and it surprised them that they had just gone under it.

"Oh, look!" Hermione gasped, drawing the boys' attention away from the wall and to McGonagall and Fawkes.

The magnificent bird had landed down in the creek bed, his claws clinging to the smooth rocks. His long neck was stretch gracefully down against the nearly invisible barrier, his small head cocked as if he were eyeballing himself in a mirror. As they watched, the bird's eyes glistened with tears. 

Suddenly a small, ring-shaped light appeared as if in mid-air. Before it could disappear, Fawkes dropped three more tears into the ring, and it tripled in size. 

"Oh . . . _wow_ . . ." Hermione breathed, stepping closer to look.

"Don't," Ron warned, grabbing her hand. "Don't disturb him."

Within minutes the breach in the barrier was large enough to fit a bent human through. McGonagall gestured for them, and Ron and Hermione looked at Harry expectantly. Shrugging and not feeling nervous because he trusted Fawkes completely, Harry slid slowly down to the riverbed, careful not to stumble into the flickering magic that would splinch him (if not worse). Smiling at Fawkes, Harry bent his body and stepped carefully over the bird, thrusting a leg through the ring, then his body, followed quickly by his other leg.

He stumbled forward onto the dry, cold ground, then rolled into a sitting position to watch everyone else.

"Ladies first," Ron was saying, sweeping his arm in front of Hermione. Harry saw her smile sheepishly at Ron before carefully making her way down the bank. Realizing that she was going to have trouble keeping her balance, Harry quickly held out a hand.

"Thanks," she uttered breathlessly. Her eyes seemed unusually bright, and Harry realized she was frightened. It made him all the more aware of his own nerves.

"Handy pets, phoenixes," said Ron, stumbling into the ground as Harry had. Ron jumped to his feet and turned to lend Professor McGonagall a hand as she came through the ring.

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley."

The ring was quickly shrinking behind her, and Harry worried that Fawkes wouldn't make it through fast enough. Just as the phoenix thrust his neck and chest through, it closed completely—

--and Fawkes let out another shrill but not-carrying song and exploded.

Hermione squeaked and Ron grunted. Harry felt his stomach lurch.

And then, just as suddenly, Fawkes reappeared in a burst of flames on their side of the barrier. Harry let out a breath of relief. They had all made it.

"Now," said McGonagall, "grab his tail."

Harry and Ron exchanged knowing looks. Hermione, however, frowned uncertainly as she clutched a fiery piece of tail feather. When McGonagall also clutched Fawkes' feather, however, Harry did not feel weightless as he had in the Chamber of Secrets. Instead he felt burningly hot, as if he were running a fatally high fever without feeling delirious . . . and then he was engulfed in flames.

__ __


	11. Escape

A/N: Yep, that's right. August 22nd Deadline _will_ happen! J 

****

Chapter Eleven

__

"Escape"

Ginny knew not if she were dreaming or conscious. The blackness held no light or sense of time. It might have been days that she lay there, fading in and out of sleep, but always vaguely aware of her failure, her surrender. The soreness left by Cruciatus was a dull reminder of the emptiness she knew she would soon feel before she died. But she welcomed the emptiness and the end.

As she gradually became aware of the cold stone floor and silence around her, signaling that she was waking again, Ginny heard a faint noise somewhere in the dark. Then there was the unmistakable sound of iron scraping against iron and wood. She held her breath, expecting her heart to start racing with fear as the heavy door creaked loudly open.

But her heart did not beat furiously and there was no echoing creak. Instead she heard the softest whisper of a spell and then silence again.

Yet light was glowing in a small, flickering sphere somewhere not so far in the dark. It moved slowly, cautiously towards where she lay, and Ginny squinted, expecting the towering dark shadows of the Death Eaters. However, there instead seemed to be a pale orb floating with the light. What terror had they brought her, believing that she had not yet broken?

__

I'll scream my obedience before they can do anything, she started to think, summoning her strength to speak. But before she found her voice, the light was above her and around her, however dim and sickly, and she could see a very pale, pinched face gazing stonily down at her.

"So you're alive. And awake. But are you mad?" said Draco Malfoy in a quiet but not soft voice.

Ginny could only stare at him. So they knew she was broken, unwilling to fight and endure more torture. They knew she needed no muscled, thick-bodied Death Eater to drag her through the winding dungeons. 

It was . . . humiliating.

"Here. Drink this," said Draco tersely, suddenly thrusting a goblet under her nose. When she only stared uncomprehendingly at the contents, he sighed and said, "It's a Restorative Draught."

"I-I'm not taking it," Ginny croaked.

"Don't be stupid, Weasley."

Ginny felt tears prickle in the back of her eyes. Trembling, she whispered, "I don't need it. I'm not going to fight. I'm giving him what he wants." She stared down at her shaking hands. How proud she had been of her biting retorts to Malfoy's stupid jibes at her brother and Harry. Now she was paying for it by him witnessing her surrender, her lowest moment of weakness. She knew surer than anything that he would gloat, tell her family and Harry everything. How weak and stupid she was . . . and it would all be true.

"No," said Draco after a pause. "You're not."

"He got Harry, then! He doesn't need me!" Ginny cried out, but it barely came above a whisper. "It's my fault. If I had obeyed, he wouldn't have gotten Harry—"

"Don't be daft!" Suddenly a cold hand jerked Ginny's chin up, and she was staring up wonderingly at Draco Malfoy's cool gray eyes that did not quite meet her own. "Listen to me, Weasley. I'm leaving. It is up to you if you want to leave or not. It won't hurt _my _feelings."

"Leaving?" she whispered, feeling something other than defeat stir within her. A great deal of it was suspicion.

"That's right. Drink up. I'm not carrying you."

Ginny jerked her head, freeing her chin from his grasp. "Why should I trust _you_?" she demanded. 

"You shouldn't," Malfoy said sardonically. "But if you stay here, you're sure to die."

Could she really escape Voldemort? Did she _want_ to escape? Riddle had her; she could end her slavery to him, die and finally be at peace. If she somehow made it back to Hogwarts, Riddle would still be with her, and she would live with the knowledge that she had given herself to Voldemort, Harry's mortal enemy. How could she live with that? It would be better to die . . .

But then Voldemort would be that much closer to winning . . .

__

I was once a Gryffindor, she thought sadly, trying to stir up enough anger and bravery and righteousness to stop the Dark Lord from becoming immortal. Clearly in the darkness over Malfoy's shoulder, she saw Harry's body suspended in mid-air, drained completely of life and blood. If she stayed, then her dream would come true, and Harry would be dead because of her willing sacrifice.

And Voldemort would be unstoppable. 

She had no true desire to leave, to make one more grasp at life. Yet as she stared at the goblet's foul contents, her body responded how her soul could not. The potion filled her mouth and her throat obediently swallowed it. Unwillingly she drained it, feeling Riddle's hot anger course through her veins along with the Restorative Draught.

"Think you can fly?" Malfoy asked when she wiped her hand across her mouth.

It was then that Ginny noticed he was also carrying a broomstick, which was nearly hidden under a black cloak draped over his arm. The bulb of light floated over his shoulder like a drowsy firefly, and she wondered if it were like Hermione's bluebell flames.

"I . . . I don't know," she answered, focusing on the question at hand. "M-maybe."

"Well, come on, then. We don't have much time before . . . well, hurry up!"

Having enough sense of herself to silently curse Malfoy, Ginny reached out trembling arms to brace against the walls. Slowly, she clawed her way up the wall, feeling dizzy on her feet. Her knees shook with the strain, but she could feel the potion restoring strength to her body even as she thought about collapsing. Pain shot through the back of her head, and she could almost hear Riddle screaming furiously for her to stop.

"Okay," she gasped.

"Put this on." The cloak dangling from his arm was thrust before her. Weakly, she took it and fumbled with the clasp before it was secured around her shoulders. After freezing in her torn, threadbare nightdress, the cloak felt very heavy and her body sagged under the weight.

"Oh for—" Rolling his eyes, Draco reached out and tightly gripped her elbow, steadying her. He shot her a scathing look of contempt and impatience, and then started forward across the dark cell, his light ball just at his shoulder. "Don't you say a _word_," he hissed when they stopped at the heavy door.

Ginny couldn't; she could barely breathe.

It was different being dragged along Malfoy Manor's dungeons with Draco than with an entourage of Death Eaters. She was more aware and jittery, despite her acceptance of the end. Did she actually _care_ what happened if they were caught? The grip on her arm was just as brusque and unfeeling as before, except perhaps weaker and tenser. The icy floor numbed her feet, and she wondered vaguely if they would have to be amputated for frostbite. They traveled swiftly, without a foreboding, ponderous march to rattle her nerves, but it still seemed like forever through the labyrinth.

Suddenly, Malfoy stopped and pushed her against the wall, clamping a hand over her mouth and nose. He then flattened himself against her. _Oh Merlin . . . he's going to rape me_, Ginny panicked, moving to kick him in the groin and escape—but then Draco gave his head a sharp, small shake and held his breath as well.

And then Ginny heard it. Shuffling footfalls coming up the tunnel. As the pressure began to build in her lungs at the lack of air, Ginny caught a glimpse of two Death Eaters ambling towards them, looking rather bored as they talked in low voices, wands held loosely at their sides. They didn't seem to notice the ball of light hanging directly above their prisoner and youngest wannabe. 

Her chest began to constrict and burn for air, and as the Death Eaters passed, she looked desperately to Malfoy, mentally screaming, "Let me go!" Draco's eyes, however, were focused intently on the retreating backs of the Death Eaters and seemed unaware of her asphyxiation. Unable to bear the thought of licking his palm to get his attention, she leaned her body as hard as she could into his.

Malfoy turned sharply and pushed even harder back. Ginny's eyes rolled and she felt her body starting to twitch. Just as she felt sure the pounding in her chest and head would end her life, Draco's pressing hold suddenly released, and she fell forward, gasping loudly. Her knees slammed into the stone floor, but she had no air to cry out. Bent on all fours, Ginny gulped for air, feeling nauseated but unable to retch.

"Y-you . . ." she breathed, tilting her head up to glare angrily at Draco's amused smirk. 

"I couldn't have you _breathing_ and give us _away_," he retorted in a whisper.

"What . . . about . . . that . . .?" She pointed at the globe hanging over his shoulder.

"It only gives light to me. Anything under it is draped in shadow."

"Still . . . you didn't . . . have to . . . do that." By now she could control her breathing, and Ginny shakily climbed to her feet, relieved yet resenting that Malfoy refused to offer her a hand.

"Believe me, Weasley," he snarled, "I took no pleasure from it."

"You almost did . . . last night," Ginny said softly, gazing down the black tunnel behind them. She shuddered. He would probably leave her here if he knew what she'd seen . . . if he knew what had happened inside her. Suddenly very self-conscious, she pulled the black cloak tightly around her frail body, remembering all too clearly how greedy and ravenous those pale gray eyes had traveled over her. How _all_ of them had looked at her. How she had looked at herself . . .

Jerking out of her reverie, Ginny realized that Draco was staring down the tunnel they had not yet traveled, his body very rigid. He refused to look at her when he started down the passage, but she knew what he was thinking about, and it did not make him feel good or powerful.

They moved in silence. No one else seemed to be patrolling the dungeon. After what felt like hours, an incline was evident under their feet, and her calves began to ache from the strain. Trying to distract herself from the pain and weariness, Ginny studied Draco's back, wondering what exactly was happening.

What had possessed Malfoy to rescue her, if this was indeed a rescue? He hated her family, hated Harry, and seemed quite pleased that his father was prime Death Eater. She knew for certain that he took pleasure in the pain of others; but she also knew he did it to make himself feel better about his own insecurities. Over the years she had watched him watch Harry and Ron with jealousy and contempt. He was despicable to anyone who showed a weakness, always quick to prey upon younger students, making them completely unaware of his small stature with his vicious tongue. And although hexes had flown between Malfoy and Harry and Ron, Ginny had noticed that Malfoy touched no one else, and usually Harry and Ron were the faster draws. Or maybe Malfoy didn't really want to duel.

__

Because he knows when he's beat, Ginny speculated. So then why was he taking her out of the clutches of evil? Was he now finally realizing what a git he was and wanted to make amends? Or was it just another trick? After all, she was a Weasley, and he would certainly love to gloat about how she'd stupidly followed him to her death.

And more over, if Draco was afraid to pull a wand against Harry, then he certainly would not dare challenge Voldemort.

Suddenly Draco Malfoy was an enigma to Ginny, someone fascinating and intriguing, someone with _depth_. The hysterical idea of Malfoy being anything but shallow and mean nearly caused Ginny to burst into giggles. But just then Draco halted at what must have been a dead end. 

Then she saw that the tunnel curved against what could have been the side of a stone turret disappearing into the darkness beyond, and that Draco was facing a cold, hard earth wall. He was feeling along it, muttering to himself. After a minute or two, he grunted and placed his hands, splayed, firmly above him, and pushed into the dirt. Abruptly he stepped back, and Ginny's mouth dropped at the silver ladder that had shot out of the earth like a tongue. As she gaped, it revolved to a vertical position and dirt fell around it but not on it. A perfect oval of dirt surrounded the ladder, allowing enough room for someone to pass up the ladder without being marred by soil.

"Come on." Draco was already scaling up the ladder, as if he'd done it all through his childhood. He paused once, only visible from the chest down, and then he was gone, his feet disappearing into . . . what, Ginny wasn't sure.

Uncertainly, but not exactly wanting to linger alone in the dark tunnel, Ginny climbed the ladder. She was first aware of fresh air hitting her nose, and then her head was above the breaking line of the ground. Pausing, she stared around, unsure of what she was seeing.

Malfoy Manor was clearly behind them, a black fortress thrusting up like an obscene gesture into the nearly black night. Few windows were lighted, and only then with a menacing, unnatural light. She quaked at the massive manor house, the dwelling of the Dark Lord who had done all of this to her, who had broken her. Falling away from Malfoy Manor was the smooth sloping lawn that must have once been beautiful to behold, but now had been claimed by evil looking plants that tangled and snagged with the hedges, trees, and earth. Many stone statues of frightening, deadly creatures seemed to stare accusingly at her, as if knowing exactly who she was and what she was doing outside of her prison.

She imagined this must be what Azkaban looked like.

"Ginny."

The soft use of her name nearly caused Ginny to topple off the ladder. Draco knelt down beside her, his eyes ghostly in the night as they darted all around them. She saw the tenseness in his gaunt features, the quickness in his nerves. He really did resemble a twitchy ferret. This did little to ease her jitters, but only made them worse.

"Ginny," Draco said again, his voice below the softest of whispers. He couldn't seem to look at her when he said her name, but kept his eyes moving over the threatening lawn that ended in a high stonewall. "I can get us out of here. I know the way through, the right spells. But you have to be fast, and you can't make one mistake."

Ginny nodded, and for the first time since she'd lost her will, she felt truly alive. Fear and anticipation pulsed like electricity through her, and she barely felt the cold wind that bit her skin. She didn't feel the heavy weight of the cloak on her thin shoulders. She didn't buckle under Riddle's presence, didn't have the oppressive knowledge of her willing sacrifice weighing down on her.

"Okay," she said tightly. "I'm ready."

Draco's face finally turned to her, and she could have sworn a corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. And then he was straightening up, helping her out of the hole, and pulling out his wand. Almost like an afterthought, but still deliberate, he grasped her elbow again, pulling her close but not against him.

He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and suddenly Ginny saw someone else in Draco Malfoy. Had he been fourteen with tousled black hair and brilliant green eyes, he could have been Harry Potter about to enter the Third Task. Compelled by the vision, she leaned closer and whispered, "It's there."

Draco did not turn toward her, but she caught the fluttery flicker of his eyes, so quick she almost missed it. Imperceptibly he breathed in, and she knew his evident fear would not overwhelm him. There was something very methodical and confident now. 

And then he moved forward.

~*~*~

During the past hour, Draco had done precisely what he had so meticulously planned to do. He had plotted, thought everything out, so when the time came to act, he did not dwell on the situation in its stark reality, but dragged Ginny Weasley through the stony bowels of his home.

The same strategy proved true for his next step. Although he had to think carefully about what he was doing as he did it, he moved more on instinct and purpose than contemplation. Staying anywhere for more than a breath would result in his death. Of course, an untouched part of his mind snickered; if he died, so would Ginny, and his revenge would still be complete. However, he would rather taste victory in life than death.

Malfoy Manor was insanely warded by sinister plants and statues to focus an intruder's attention on what he could see, rather than the invisible, intricate tangle of spells, charms, hexes, and jinxes that surrounded the property like a spider's web. Only a wizard or witch learned in the Dark Arts could stand a chance, but only a very slight one. Draco knew he was lucky to have lived here and have traveled the perilous journey down his lawn; otherwise, he would be dead, either by the Dark Lord's hand or the walls of malevolent magic.

With his wand out, one hand gripping Ginny tightly, Draco faced the first obstacle. It was merely ducking under an invisible wall designed to decapitate the unaware, but it was a very important detail to remember. Just before he placed a hand over her ridiculously red head, Draco imagined the satisfaction of seeing a Weasley running around with her head cut-off like a chicken . . .

But he knew the truth of it would not be amusing.

Obediently, Ginny lowered her body to the pressure of his hand, and they passed safely under possible beheading. Straightening as he moved three steps to the right, then two directly north, Draco did not allow himself any relief yet. He would not relax until they were over the stonewall still far off in the night, and maybe even then he would still feel threatened.

As Draco neutralized another hexed wall, he glanced momentarily at Ginny Weasley. Although he hated to admit it, he was pleased with her lithe way of moving with him. Her eyes were wide and frightened, her breath misting in quick puffs, but she did not hesitate or lag uncertainly behind. He knew she didn't trust him, and he did not go seeking her trust. All he needed was her cooperation. Nothing more.

__

But she had to mention last night, he inwardly shuddered as he stopped a charging statue of a vampire with a Dark Arts version of the Impediment Curse. It glared angrily at him and flashed its fangs before Draco sent it swooping back to its perch.

Draco was certain that Ginny Weasley had read his mind. But what disturbed him more was the redness behind her eye. He had read about possessed persons before, but had never met one . . . until now.

"This next part is tricky," he whispered. He halted and gave his head a faint shake. This was no time to be thinking anything but what he was doing. "This is Devil's Snare."

Ginny almost let out a laugh. "So light a fire."

"Yes, and wouldn't that have everyone out here in an instant?" Satisfaction at her sheepish look filled Draco, but he did not revel in it as he would have liked. There was no time for that. Along with the forty feet of killer plant he had to avoid, there was the constantly changing Dimension Pocket that if stumbled into, would send them to only God knew where. Probably somewhere like Antarctica or the Sahara Desert. Maybe even a pit full of tarantulas.

It would be impossible, except Draco had his Thief's Light hovering just over his shoulder. Even though humans outside its light could only see shadow, the Devil's Snare would react to it as any other light or source of warmth. He only had to position and time his Heat Hex with the path of the Thief's Light, and the snarling plant would be as easy as playing Hufflepuff.

Now for the lurking, shifting Dimension Pocket.

"Be ready for _anything_," Draco warned, casting the Heat Hex as he began moving forward. Long tentacles recoiled as he began striding across the thick, expansive patch. His eyes were peeled for the faint silver shimmer and shadow that was the Pocket. It could sneak up behind him, or lay innocently in his path. The lack of moonlight or stars would make it even harder to detect.

"What's that?" Ginny muttered, pointing with only her hand to Draco's left.

Draco heard the faint whisper, but couldn't see anything moving amongst the tangled jungle of vine. And then there was a barely perceptible flicker, like a leaf twitching in the breeze . . . it seemed somehow darker, though not opaque, just there . . .

"Move!" Draco cried, pushing Ginny forward just as the Pocket yawned over them. She stumbled, but was on her feet in an instant and moving with him. 

Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Draco saw the slightly darker shape rushing after them—

And then it disappeared.

"Stop!" He snatched her around the waist and pulled her hard against him, nearly causing him to fall backwards. Peering around her neck and over her small shoulder, Draco looked down to see the barely detectable shade not even a full step in front of them. The Pocket had flattened itself to the Snare, waiting for them to step right into it.

"Move sideways to the right. Do _not_ step forward."

Ginny nodded, and as she looked directly ahead, he knew she couldn't see the Pocket. His eye had been trained to it. "Now," he murmured, still grasping her waist. 

They moved. Draco winced as her heel came down on his foot, but he said nothing. There was no time. The Pocket was moving again, and so were they. It might have taken them twenty minutes, or maybe just five, to get through the Devil's Snare, and four times Draco's heart had leapt into his throat at the Pocket's tricks.

But then they were out.

Standing in the five feet of un-hexed lawn, Draco allowed for a short rest.

"Does that go all around?" Ginny asked, her voice tight and constricted as she waved a shaking hand towards the Devil's Snare.

"Yes."

"Oh." She paused. He could see her staring off at the stonewall, which was now closer, but still not close enough for comfort.

"Come on," said Draco quietly. 

And, once again, they were moving forward as one, two enemies with the same immediate goal.


	12. Weasley War

A/N: Two more chapters left! The last probably won't be posted _on_ the 22nd, because I'll be busy moving, but it will come shortly after that. Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing! Sorry for scaring some of you with possible D/G. Ginny and Harry would _both_ torture, maim, and kill me!

****

Chapter Twelve

__

"Weasley War"

"Here, this should calm you down, Weasley."

Ron jerked and blinked his eyes. He'd been staring down at the map of Malfoy Manor, watching as the small orange dots of the Order of the Phoenix members appeared five miles from where his sister was held prisoner.

Leaning an elbow across the table, his one arm extended, Edgar Sotter held a pipe in his grubby hand. Ron stared at it uncomprehendingly, and then stared at Edgar's grin, quite sure the man was mad. Behind Edgar, Mundungus Fletcher chuckled.

"Eddie, I don't think the lad's had much tobacco," said Mundungus, taking a drink from his tankard.

"Why not? Puts hair on your chest." Shrugging, Edgar stuck the proffered pipe into the corner of his mouth and turned his head to the other wall, where Harry was pacing and rolling his wand between his fingers. "Wish the cat lady hadn't made us swear we wouldn't influence them any," he said mournfully.

Ron heard Hermione's _tut tut_, but he couldn't look away from the map laid out on the table. Ever since Fawkes had transported them to the small shack at the edge of the village of Wedgrass, Ron had been unable to speak or do anything other than watch the map. Wedgrass was a half wizarding, half Muggle community twenty miles from Malfoy Manor. The shack was no more than a feed shed behind the renovated livery stable that was now a grocer's. Below the shack, however, was a small but efficient rendezvous for the Order. It housed a single area for meetings, with a small off-set space for any member needing to bunk down for a day or two. All in all, it could uncomfortably squeeze about twenty wizards and witches before they had to start shrinking themselves.

What felt odd about the underground hovel was that it was built out of wood. The cracks between the yellowish boards showed the dirt walls, floor, and ceiling of the large hole under the shed, and yet Ron did not feel as if he were underground. This strange feeling might have been due to the charmed "window" that looked over the village of Wedgrass. But Ron wondered about what enchantments might have been used to add to the "comfort" of Windy Top.

__

Who named this place, anyway? 

"I wish Professor McGonagall was here," Hermione whispered at Ron's shoulder.

He turned and gazed down at her tense, nervous face and felt his stomach clench. McGonagall had left with the other members of the Order, including Sirius, Fred, George, Charlie, and Bill. Leaning over the large map, Ron saw the red dot labeled "Kitty" moving steadily beside "Doggy."

"Oh, _honestly_," Hermione muttered, her chin just over Ron's shoulder to read the map with him. He felt her hair brush against his cheek, along with her hot, exuded breath of exasperation. 

"Oh, relax," said Mundungus cheerily. "We'll change it back to Black and McGonagall before they get back. What's the use of being Watcher if you can't have a little fun?"

"This isn't about _fun,_" huffed Hermione. "This is about my friend, Ron's sister, and Harry's—"

Ron's jaw dropped, but Hermione's shut quickly, and he caught a twinge of red in her cheeks. He was aware that Harry had stopped pacing.

"Harry's what?" grinned Edgar, putting his feet up on the table and gazing across the small room.

"Yeah, Harry's what?" Ron wanted to ask, but he knew better. Slowly, he shifted in his chair to gaze over at his friend. Harry had sat himself down on an overturned barrel and had his hands buried in his hair, face carefully hidden from them.

"Uh . . . Harry's friend. Yeah, Ginny's a . . . a friend of Harry's, too," Hermione said tremulously.

"Oh yes, _friend_," Edgar chuckled knowingly. 

It was then that Ron knew for sure. Harry was sitting perfectly still, face hidden, but his shoulders seemed to twitch. If . . . if this plan didn't work, if it failed . . . Ron would be losing his sister, but Harry would lose . . . Suddenly clenching Hermione's hand, Ron pulled her down next to him, wrapping his arms around her and not caring what Edgar or Mundungus said. She didn't seem to care either, but melted against him, her head finding its most comfortable perch against his chest, just under his chin. They were thinking the same thing: what it would be like to lose each other.

~*~*~

He had to get out. Being here wasn't doing anything but driving him mad with anger and frustration. It didn't matter that the most trusted and able members of the order were closing in on Malfoy Manor with a battle plan that just might work. Even without his stupidity, this battle would have taken place, probably within the next couple of weeks—but Ginny wouldn't be there. She, like the others, would have heard about it after it had happened. This night could have been spent in the Gryffindor common room, grumbling over schoolwork and N.E.W.T.s, and thinking of ways to be even closer to Ginny without Ron or Hermione noticing.

Harry still couldn't believe his own ears, even several minutes after Hermione had clumsily revealed what Harry had thought he'd kept very secret. How could she have known? Harry had never mentioned his feelings for Ginny, hadn't even said, "Oh, by the way, Hermione, Ginny and I are friends." It had just sort of happened, his and Ginny's friendship, and then . . . Harry swallowed the lump in his throat.

No _way_ could he start remembering the feel of her soft lips against his. Not here. Not now. Not with everyone shooting him _those_ looks. Edgar and Mundungus could just stop smirking like that, damnit! And Hermione and Ron didn't need to look so anguished for him! Bloody hell, it wasn't he, Harry Potter, the Effing Boy Who Lived, but _Ginny_ who was in trouble. No sympathy for him. He had put her there. It was _his_ fault!

Peeking out from under his fringe, Harry could see Ron staring at him as he held Hermione tightly. One big, freckled hand ran up and down her arm. Harry's eyes burned and he had to look down at his shoes. Ron might lose his sister tonight, and he knew it, felt it, but yet he was still looking at Harry as if it was _Harry_ who would suffer most.

"They're within a mile," said Mundungus in a low voice.

Despite his desire to hide, Harry lifted his head as the four other inhabitants of Windy Top leaned over the table to watch the red dots close in.

~*~*~

"Well," Ginny breathed as Draco's hands immediately left her waist after helping her down the wall. "We made it." She tried to move her lips into a smile, but all she felt was utter exhaustion, terror, and shock.

"Not yet, we haven't." Draco held out his broomstick and then reached into his cloak and withdrew a familiar-looking wand. "This is yours."

Ginny stared at the thin piece of willow, feeling a spark of annoyance well in her. "How did you get this? And why didn't you give it to me earlier? I could have been of help!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Firstly, I stole it. Secondly, I'm not fool enough to let you have it. You don't know the spells, and even if you did, I suspect you would have been just as incompetent as your oaf of a brother—"

Ginny opened her mouth to retaliate, but Draco plunged on. "Also, had you tried _anything_ back there, we would both be dead. Consider yourself blessed." He mounted his broomstick. "Get on. Or I leave you here when they discover you missing."

Ginny fought the urge to hex Malfoy right there and take off with his broom. But it seemed incredibly ungrateful—and a very Malfoy thing to do—to leave her rescuer here after he'd saved her life. Besides, she didn't know where she was or where to go. Scotland was very far from here, that much she knew.

Wordlessly, she mounted the Firebolt 2 behind Malfoy, and locked her arms around his waist. Instantly they lifted into the air, but only three feet off the ground. Draco flew low in the dark, skirting along the wall they had just climbed until they came to the woods. Then he landed and had her dismount. 

"Anyone that prowls around our wall is dead," said Draco as he slipped into the woods, Ginny right behind him. "We have traps. You have to fly over them, and only on a broom marked by my father."

At "father" he grew very quiet. Ginny, even in the pressing dark, could see the tense line in Draco's jaw. Again, she wondered why he was doing this and why she was trusting him. For all she knew, this could be a test for him, to see how he could navigate mazes of traps and spells, drag a hostage along, and then . . . what would he do to her in the woods?

Yet even as she remembered the foul, violent images that had been in Draco's gray eyes the night before, Ginny couldn't quite muster the proper fear and hatred for him. She was just as disgusting and weak as he was, maybe even more so. Draco Malfoy had not tortured her on Voldemort's command, but she, Ginny Weasley, had willfully decided to give her sacrifice to help him reach immortality. Who had been the more selfish and weak?

Ginny's steps fell farther and farther behind, until Draco's Thief Light had draped him in shadow. Now completely swallowed by the dark, she collapsed to the cold ground, fighting the urge to sob. The sound of crackling limbs and dead leaves approached, but she didn't care if the Death Eaters found her.

"What, are you tired?" Draco demanded. Ginny was suddenly bathed in the faint glow from his Thief's Light. He towered above her, one hand on his hip as the other held the broomstick.

Ginny shook her head but then nodded.

"Too bad. You can't stop here. Woods will be the first place they check."

"I can't go back."

"Obviously. That's why we're walking _away_."

"No." Ginny sucked in a deep breath. "I can't go back to _Hogwarts_. When they know I _wanted_ to give myself to Voldemort—"

"Shut up!" Draco hissed. He swooped down and clamped a hand over her mouth. "You _idiot_. Don't say his name! And stop being a whinging, self-pitying little prat. Count yourself lucky that you have people who _want_ you back at Hogwarts. That you _can_ go back."

Ginny stared up at him in wonderment. But Draco refused to meet her eye and quickly straightened up, brushing off his cloak and looking as if he hadn't said a word. Slowly she rose to her feet, feeling caught between her depression and her temper which had been flaring back through the evening. She wanted to be angry at Draco for insulting her, but a part of her knew he definitely had a point.

It occurred to her then that she might be able to get through this night. That she might live. That she might see everyone she loved again . . . but one of them didn't love her. Ginny stumbled over a tree root. It was just like that night in the Chamber of Secrets after she had woken up to find Harry and Fawkes, splattered in blood, waiting for her. Yes, she was now safe, but she knew Harry could not possibly have the same feelings for her. Not when he knew the awful truth. It made coming out of the darkness less bright.

~*~*~

All was still and quiet in the cold November night without stars or moon. All wildlife had fled Malfoy Manor shortly after strange smells and sounds began flowing from the massive structure. No leaves rustled, no branches bowed in a wind. The only sign of life was silent and fleeting, lost in the shadows and hush, figments of the imagination. 

After several minutes of nothingness, a slight breeze began moving through the treetops. Clouds seemed to lower directly over the highest tower of the manor house. Then three figures on broomsticks rose up to the gathering clouds, a large balloon of sorts snug in a sling between two of the riders. The third followed closely behind but not below the enormous contraption. They disappeared into the mass.

Down below wizards and witches hastily secured their rain slickers and parkas, galoshes and Wellingtons, and goggles and masks. Suddenly there was a noise like the clap of thunder, but no lightning had preceded it. A second later, rain began pouring down on Malfoy Manor. It looked like any normal rain, but after about a minute, there was a sound not at all like thunder, but even more alarming. An odd steam seemed to rise from every wet surface as the rain turned slightly heavier, thicker, and with a very dirty glow to it.

The three riders came soaring over the accumulation. They flew over the woods and came to land in a clearing just out of the rain's reach.

"Beautiful, if I say so myself," said a cheery rider after dismounting.

Within five minutes, Malfoy Manor was drenched and steaming, resembling a dung pile that attracted flies. Over the pouring rain, shouts could be heard coming from the dark structure. Bright flashes of light from spells ended in static sparks that soon died out completely. A dome shape appeared over the top-most tower, curving gently down to the stonewall that surrounded the entire property. It crackled and sizzled, steam rising off the surface and then shooting through to hit the smoldering ground. 

When the dome turned a hazy, dull gray, figures began to emerge seemingly from nowhere, all closing in on Malfoy Manor. With a unified cry, twenty bolts of red light shot into the high stonewall. In twenty different, evenly spaced-out sections, the wall began to crumble. But a breath later, the cry came again, and the red light disintegrated what was left of the stone.

The hazy dome flickered once, and then died completely, revealing ghostly shapes and figures dispersed in intricate patterns along the sweeping slope of the lawn. Four yellow-parka figures emerged first into the jungle, easily disabling the weak barriers in their way. Steam rose from their raincoats and parkas, but they continued forward, undaunted. More followed in their wake, spreading out to clear the lawn completely of obstacles. Several stone statues began to charge, but crumbled completely after three steps. When the wizards and witches reached the tangled mass of Devil's Snare, they found a pitiful, withering plant. As they pushed forward through the Snare, one member disappeared completely. Those that had been nearest paused uncertainly before urged to hurry onward.

And then, in a matter of minutes from when they'd started, the Order of the Phoenix reached the doorstep of Malfoy Manor.

~*~*~

Ginny and Draco had just reached the other side of the wood when they heard the clap of thunder. Gazing up into the dark sky, they could not see any thunderclouds. As Draco mounted his broom and Ginny wordlessly clamored on behind, a faint smell drifted to them with the breeze. Even the weakened aroma sent her nose stinging and she wrinkled it to try to escape the stench.

"What _is_ that?" Draco muttered. He twisted on the broom to gaze back through the black wood, but there was nothing he could see. After hesitating a minute more, he kicked off into the air, higher than before, and they flew into the night.

~*~*~

"Well, we won't know much now until they tell us," Mundungus said, sitting back in his chair and scratching his ear. Nearly fifteen red dots had entered the manor, including the one labeled 'Dumbledore.' Black dots remained either stationary, or seemed to shift sluggishly when approached by a red dot.

"How come Ginny doesn't have a dot?" Ron asked suddenly. "Doesn't Sirius's maps reveal _everyone_ who is there?"

"Not this one. Just the Order members and Death Eaters."

"Why not everyone?"

"He didn't have time."

~*~*~

George Weasley had not been entirely sure what to expect with the Really Rank Rain that he and Fred had proudly concocted. He had been sure it would work, he just hadn't been sure how _well_. The effects were amazing, and it gave him no small bit of satisfaction to see Malfoy Manor resembling a heaping pile of dung. If only he'd thought about bringing a camera!

Inside the manor, George found things rather chaotic but leaning towards his liking. Two Death Eaters had stumbled out of the front door, choking and gasping, only to collapse completely under the steaming rain. George breathed in his scent of strawberries as he stepped over the heap that he thought might be Crabbe and Goyle seniors as he followed his brother into the manor. Sirius and McGonagall were ahead of them, and George felt slightly annoyed they felt they had to baby-sit he and Fred.

But then there wasn't time to think about that. A Death Eater came wobbling into their path, wand out and giving off a raspy whine as he spluttered through a curse. Sirius Stunned him instantly and McGonagall conjured ropes out of thin air to bind him. All Order wands were wrapped in a sort of clingy Muggle plastic used to keep food fresh, and therefore perfectly capable of hexing Death Eaters.

George entered the front sitting room and saw two Death Eaters covering their noses and brandishing wands. "Hey, open the windows!" he shouted to Fred as he pointed his wand at the wizard on the right. "_Petrificus Totalus!_"

There was a gust of air as Fred opened all three windows simultaneously. The second Death Eater had dropped her hand to curse him as her partner fell to the floor, but she let out a garbled noise as she inhaled to say her own hex.

"_Stupefy_," Fred said cheerfully but forcefully. The witch fell to the floor with a thud.

"Good work," said Sirius, coming into the sitting room from the parlor across the corridor. He bound them quickly. "I'll tell everyone to open the windows."

George grinned from underneath his fresh-scented mask. Sirius looked ridiculous in his blue raincoat, yellow floppy hat, and pink floral mask. But his pale blue eyes were serious and focused as he whirled into the next room and word spread to open the windows. The creaking, whooshing sound of the windows opening echoed through the manor with the guttural sounds of retching Death Eaters.

"It really _is_ a beautiful thing," said George, clapping Fred on the back.

__

BOOM!

The floor shook beneath them, knocking the twins to the floor. Shouts and cries rose from above and below, and George suddenly realized what was happening. "_The dungeons! Quick!_"

~*~*~

Harry screamed. 

Hermione let out a shriek as Harry's head slammed onto the wooden table, slicing a crack down the middle. He twitched and growled, and his head rolled to the side, revealing his burning red scar and the already swelling bump. 

"Harry?" she whispered, touching his shoulder as his eyes crossed and his hands flew to his scar. He called out again in agony as he pressed too hard against the bump. Or was his scar hurting him that much? "Harry!"

"What the hell?" Edgar swore, on his feet and moving around the table. "What's the matter with him?"

"I think something's gone wrong," Ron said hoarsely, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and pulling him off the table. "Easy, mate. Hermione—help!"

Hermione sprang forward as Ron dragged Harry, twitching and moaning, off the chair and to the floor. "What should I do?" she asked uncertainly. It seemed the only thing anyone could do when Harry's scar started to hurt was calm him down, but she didn't see how she could do that with him convulsing on the floor at her feet.

"I don't know . . . _something_!" Ron was pressing down hard on Harry's shoulders to keep him from rolling. His face was white compared to Harry's painful red, and Hermione's heart jumped to her throat.

What was Voldemort doing to Ginny?!

"Dumble . . . dore," Harry gasped, jerking against Ron's strong hold. Mundungus had hold of his legs, leaving Harry immobile. His eyes fluttered and his chest heaved. "No . . . Dumbledore! . . . Voldemo—_NO!"_

Hermione was suddenly shoved backwards, and she toppled over, her back hitting the wall. Gasping for breath, she saw that Ron and Mundungus had also been pushed back, and Edgar stood standing, speechless, with a broken bottle of butterbeer in his hand.

"Gosh," Edgar whispered, staring at Harry's curled form.


	13. Deliverance

****

Chapter Thirteen

__

"Deliverance"

"Have another one, mate." 

A third bottle of butterbeer passed beneath Harry's eyes, and he stared at it dully. His scar still hurt too much. Voldemort was seething and alive. So was Dumbledore, but the great wizard was injured.

"Go on, Potter. It'll clear your head."

"Yeah . . . go on. What happened after the tunnel collapsed?"

Harry stared blearily at the four faces pressed around him. He grappled to remember everything he had seen and felt, but it was all in a muddled mess. "I . . . I don't know . . . Voldemort said something . . . probably a cackle or hex or something . . . and then he was gone and Dumbledore didn't get clear of the stones . . ." He squeezed his eyes shut and took a long drink from the bottle.

"But Dumbledore's alive, right?" persisted Edgar, clutching his own butterbeer.

"I . . . think so. And Voldemort. He's definitely alive."

No one said anything for a long moment, and finally Ron croaked, "And Ginny?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know." It felt terrible to say it, but he honestly didn't know. Throughout the past few days, he had told himself over and over that he would _know_ if Voldemort . . . if he _killed_ her . . . But now he wasn't so sure. She _had_ to be alive . . . but Dumbledore was injured, Voldemort had escaped, and anything wrong seemed possible.

__

Pop!

Harry whirled around, upsetting his bottle. It crashed to the floor. He blinked as Remus Lupin shrugged off his stinking rain slicker and Banished it from the hovel. He looked tired and without triumph.

"What happened?" Ron demanded, standing up.

Remus sighed wearily. "We've captured everyone but Voldemort, Lucius, and Bellatrix. They escaped down the dungeon tunnels after we entered the manor. They must have already been down there when we attacked. We had Smith and Johnson sending the Stink Squirters down all the exits, but it didn't do any good. We think they Apparated after—" He paused and sank into a chair. "Dumbledore was dueling with Voldemort and was caught when it collapsed. Voldemort escaped after that."

"And is he all right?" asked Hermione in a tiny voice. She squeezed Harry's shoulder, but he didn't notice, he was too afraid of the answer.

"Yes. He's alive. McGonagall took him straight to Hogwarts with Fawkes." Remus paused again and rubbed his forehead. "Everyone that isn't explaining to the Aurors about what happened and why they have so many criminals and prominent wizards tied up are searching the dungeons for Ginny. They . . . they haven't found her yet."

"The diary," said Harry quietly, "did they find the diary?"

"Dumbledore told us to make sure we destroyed it," said Remus, frowning. "Sirius managed to trip up Malfoy, who was carrying it. It was given to me and it is no more." 

"Good," Harry breathed, and he closed his eyes in relief. But it was short-lived. Where was Ginny? Would the Order find her in time? "Remus," he said suddenly, "can't we go to the manor, now that the Voldemort is gone?"

"I'm afraid not, Harry. It's crawling with Aurors and the Order, but that doesn't mean it's safe. They have enough to worry about without having to count _more_ heads. In fact, I have instructions to take you back to Hogwarts immediately."

"No!" Harry paused to calm himself. "Please, Remus. Let us stay a little longer. Until more people get back."

"Well, we need Fawkes to do it, anyway," Remus relented. "But then you leave."

~*~*~

Ginny had lost track of how far they had flown, not that she'd ever been good at measuring distance and time on a broom. Clinging to Draco Malfoy, she buried her face in his back, too frozen by the whistling wind and too exhausted to do anything else. She didn't think much, her mind as numb as her body. To stay awake she concentrated on physical things, like the scratch of the wool cloak against her skin, the tenseness in Draco's thin body, and how his gloved hand was warm and secure over locked arms. It was her sense of safety that she wouldn't fall off the broom into the dark fields below.

Every so often Draco would change direction, but Ginny had no sense of where they might be heading. Once she thought she saw several people on broomsticks rush by from where they had just flown, but it might have been her imagination. 

The sky was starting to lighten when Draco began to descend again. Forcing her frozen eyelids open, Ginny saw the dark shapes of houses and a light strip of road. It appeared to be a small village surrounded by farm fields. Draco landed about a mile away by a cluster of trees at the edge of a field.

"Get off," said Draco, his voice like a sharp crack in her ears. He'd been silent for so long.

Stiffly, Ginny released him and sank weakly to the ground. Her whole body trembled and she felt her breath coming short.

"This is where I leave you." Draco had not dismounted. "If you follow this field and road, you will get to Wedgrass. On the other side of it is an old livery stable with a shed behind it. Go in the shed."

"What . . . is it?" 

"A hide-out for Dumbledore's little army." Draco started to kick off, but Ginny lunged and caught his cloak.

"You mean, you're not coming with me?" she asked, staring up at his expressionless face. The gray light was pushing away the dark of night. It would soon be dawn. He looked very pale against the lightening sky.

"I can't exactly go back to Hogwarts, can I?"

"You could," Ginny argued. "Dumbledore would pardon you, since you . . . well, you saved me."

"I'm not about to fight on _his_ side," snapped Draco, jerking his cloak from her hands. "I'm not like Snape. I don't want to be on either side. Get that?"

Ginny nodded, feeling suddenly very sad; not for herself, but for Draco Malfoy. "I'm sorry. Good-bye, Draco."

Draco paused before kicking off. "Good-bye, Ginny," he said softly. And then he was gone.

~*~*~

"They're not giving up," Mr. Chang said wearily, sitting himself down on the floor, "but they've searched everywhere. She's not in Malfoy Manor."

"You-Know-Who must have taken her with him," said Mrs. Johnson with a sigh. "And to think, it was almost all for not."

"Well, you did capture twenty-six Death Eaters," Edgar pointed out optimistically. "That's quite a blow. And Malfoy Manor is rendered useless. At least, some of it. I don't think they'll set up there again."

"Yes, but Dumbledore is injured, Miss Weasley is still missing, and now we don't know where the Dark forces will be reforming," Mr. Change argued.

"What's happening at Hogwarts, anyone know?" asked Mrs. Johnson.

There was a _pop!_ and McGonagall appeared. Fawkes burst into the crowded hovel behind her and immediately found Harry, who had tucked himself away in a corner. The bright bird perched on the young man's lap, and Harry reached up to stroke the fiery feathers.

"The Death Eaters have fled Hogwarts and the barrier is down," McGonagall announced. She waved her hands to silence the cheers. "The Ministry deployed seven Aurors to bring it down, and two have been stationed permanently on the grounds."

"What about Dumbledore?" someone shouted from somewhere near the floor.

McGonagall's mouth was thin. "He is being treated by Madam Pomfrey and is expected to fully recover. Now, would all of you that are injured please go topside so medi-wizards can treat your injuries?"

The crowd began to thin. McGonagall approached Harry as Hermione and Ron made their way back towards him. Harry barely glanced up from Fawkes to acknowledge them.

"Potter," McGonagall said quietly. "It's time to go."

__

But Ginny isn't here yet, he wanted to say, but his throat remained closed.

~*~*~

It was a mile. Only a mile. It should have been easy after everything else, but now that Ginny was alone, she felt as if she would never reach the village. The frosty ground was cold and sharp on her feet, so she'd used her wand to Sever strips of cloth off her cloak and wrapped them around her feet. But wool couldn't stop her legs from shaking, and more than once she fell to the ground, sat still for a moment, and then determinedly heaved herself back onto her feet.

The sky was a definite gray now, but it might as well have been a never-ending night. She stumbled through a thicket along a frozen creek. Branches lashed her cheeks and arms. It occurred to her to simply curl herself up along the thin strip of ice and let hypothermia take over her trembling body. She would be asleep before death settled in.

But then she heard noises, and more out of curiosity than anything else, Ginny climbed the creek's bank and saw the edge of the village of Wedgrass only yards ahead of her. More than that, wizards were swooping into the air on broomsticks, the popping sound of Disapparation filled the air, and Ginny saw the unmistakable cloak of an Auror pass between two houses.

With her last ounce of strength, Ginny limped forward onto the road that cut straight through the village. The November morning air sliced painfully through her throat and lungs, but she gulped it and pushed onward. It was suddenly very quiet as she entered the edge of the village, passing the first house, but it wasn't an eerie quiet. Just the quiet of a place left empty.

Empty.

Ginny realized with horror what it meant. All the wizards had left! With a cry of despair, Ginny sank to her knees and began to sob uncontrollably. 

It was the end. Truly the end. She was going to die here, in some tiny village called Wedgrass, where no one knew her. Her death would have no meaning or impact. Voldemort could not have her sacrifice, but no one would ever know what happened to her. Part of her knew she could just get up and find a resident and ask for help, but the other part, the one that had given up back in the cold cell, did not want to seek help. She had wanted death hours ago, and here it was, so she would just accept it.

"GINNY!"

The shout was her imagination. A cruel trick to bring her hope just before the cold claimed her as she knew it wanted to.

"_GINNY!_"

Catching a sob in her throat, Ginny looked up the street to see a redheaded figure racing straight towards her. 

~*~*~

Harry felt numb. Completely, totally numb. It was freezing outside, but he couldn't blame the weather for his lack of feeling. All he could absorb was the fact that they were leaving Windy Top to return to Hogwarts . . . without Ginny.

She was gone.

Harry's eyes fell on Ron's back as his friend walked ahead of him, hand-in-hand with Hermione. He knew his friend was just as miserable and angry, just as lost. But there was nothing to be done. Harry told himself he would not cry, would not show what he felt. Ron did not need to witness Harry's guilt and pain, not when he was grieving. And yet Harry couldn't help but envy Ron. Ron had Hermione for comfort, Hermione to hold.

McGonagall led them out from behind the livery stable into the high street. They would take Fawkes back to Hogwarts once they reached the outskirts of town, away from any waking Muggle eyes. Nearly everyone had left Windy Top, except for Edgar and Mundungus, and Remus was following only a step behind Harry, making sure no one was left behind.

"Wait," Ron said suddenly, halting in the middle of the street. "Listen."

Harry did, but at first couldn't hear anything but a lone bird singing a mournful song in a nearby field. Then he heard something else, something he couldn't identify.

"Ginny," Ron breathed. 

Harry's heart jumped. He turned and followed Ron's gaze down the street. At the very end of the village he could make out a slumped sort of figure.

Ron took off running. "GINNY!" he shouted.

"Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall called sharply. "Be careful! You don't know—" but she stopped and began running as well.

Harry couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He stood at one end of the village as everyone else raced to the other. Ron was screaming her name all down the high street, and Harry saw curtains fly open and heads peer out at the spectacle. And then Harry saw a head of red rise up from the black lump, and Ron was scooping her up. Slowly, Harry walked down the street towards them, his chest pressing hard against his ribcage. Any moment it would burst out and he would trip over it.

"Ron! Oh Ron!"

Harry heard her throaty, raspy sob as she flung her arms around her brother and clung to him. Ron's sobs mingled with hers, both of them muffled against each other as they clung desperately to one another. Hermione was sobbing into the back of Ron's neck, her arms flung around him and Ginny. McGonagall stood a few spaces away with Remus, the two adults watching the reunion with shining eyes.

No one looked at Harry.

"God, Ginny!" cried Ron, pulling himself an inch away so he could look her over. "What happened? How did you escape? _What did the bastards do to you?!_"

Ginny only shook her head, refusing to lift it out of Ron's chest. If anything, Harry thought she burrowed herself in deeper, as if to hide forever. Harry's breathing came faster and shallower as he watched Ginny shudder against Ron, her sobs becoming more and more hysterical and ragged. All he wanted to do was rush over and wrap her completely in his arms, kiss her passionately, and tell her everything would be all right. 

But he couldn't. This was a Weasley reunion. And he had put Ginny in this state.

"Let's get you back to Hogwarts," said Ron quietly as her sobs began to quiet. She nodded slightly, and without another word, he scooped her legs up and turned towards the other end to carry her out of town.

For a heartbeat, Harry met Ginny's glistening eyes. She turned away. All the way up Wedgrass high street, Harry fought hard not to cry.


	14. The Second Sacrifice

****

Chapter Fourteen

__

"The Second Sacrifice"

It was Friday. 

As Harry walked down the quiet corridor to the infirmary, he was very grateful for the week's end. It had been the worst week of his life, and nothing had been done to him. He could barely believe that last Friday he had been more happy than sad, that he had shared a soft kiss. Had it really only been a week ago?

It felt so much longer.

Harry's steps faltered as he came to the closed door of the infirmary. He'd only been there twice to see Ginny, and both times she had been sound asleep. Harry had avoided it as much as possible, making up stupid excuses like studying and needing extra Quidditch practice whenever Ron or Hermione announced they were going down to see Ginny. He'd made himself scarce when the Weasley family had arrived to visit their recovering daughter. 

How could he possibly be in the same room with the Weasleys, knowing _he_ was the reason why Ginny looked so emaciated and sick? 

Harry stood stock still before the thick infirmary door, trying to stop his shaking. Beyond this door lay Ginny, sunken into her white bed, vibrant coppery hair dull and lank around her thin, pale face. Madam Pomfrey said she barely awoke to eat, and only then by force. She didn't even eat the Chocolate Frogs Ron had brought.

Ginny loved chocolate.

Madam Pomfrey said that Ginny should have recovered from Cruciatus by now. Harry's fists clenched and he felt anger and despair well inside. Cruciatus was horrible agony, but Harry knew there had been more to Ginny's torture than that. Why else would she still be like this? Sleeping as though to hide from the world? What else had Voldemort done to her? Had _Malfoy_ done anything?

Harry still couldn't believe what Hermione had told him. Draco Malfoy had helped Ginny escape. It couldn't be true. And now Malfoy was missing, but no one was really looking for him, either. Harry wasn't sure how he felt. He was overjoyed Ginny was safe now, but she should not have been saved by Draco Malfoy. He, Harry, should have done it.

It shouldn't matter who had saved her, he knew, just as long as she was safe and alive. Harry repeated this over and over to himself, but he still felt guilty and inadequate. It was this guilt that drove him away from the infirmary, but now he was here with a resolution. He was skipping Quidditch practice, having faked a twisted ankle, to come here and tell Ginny the truth.

__

I lied. I just have to tell her that. Then she'll know. And then she can decide. Simple.

Harry's hand shook violently as he raised it to pull the infirmary door open. He didn't fear telling her the truth—he was only nervous about that—but seeing Ginny looking so ghostly and frail under the white sheets terrified him.

Breathing deeply, Harry steeled himself for the worst.

The infirmary was quiet, glowing in a gray light from the freshly fallen snow outside. Harry blinked wonderingly around at the white sheets and curtains, the open windows letting in the light, and the rows of empty beds. Gradually, cautiously, his eyes moved down the row to the farthest bed surrounded by a privacy curtain. He was glad it was on the far end; he could turn around and leave if he chickened out.

"No," he told himself sternly. "You need to tell her."

Walking slowly but determinedly, Harry approached the white curtain. He paused just on the other side, listening hard. Nothing. She was probably asleep. Harry wasn't sure whether he was relieved or not. Cautiously, he peeked around the curtain, and felt his chest tighten.

Bathed in gray light and surrounded by white linens, Ginny looked both ethereal and . . . dead. She lay very still on her back, head turned to her right against the pillow. One hand lay at her side, the other was lost under the warm, white woolen blanket. The light falling across her face failed to bring any luster to her red hair, which looked thinner and straggly. Shadows circled her eyes and filled the hollows of her cheekbones. Her lips were pale.

Harry stared at her lips, remembering how soft and warm they had been. Now he knew they were cold and tense.

"Ginny," he breathed, sinking into the bedside chair. He dropped his head in his hands, fighting what was to be released. "I'm so sorry."

Without thinking, Harry reached out and took her cold, limp hand in his, and then brought his lips down to kiss it. He saw the small freckles along her thumb, spreading over the top of her hand and sprinkling up her arm and under the sleeve of her gown. His eyes continued upward until they rested on her still face that was not relaxed.

Was she having nightmares? Or—Harry's heart skipped sickeningly—was she only pretending so she wouldn't have to look at him? 

Harry stared at her, trying to detect a twitch or sign of faking, but Ginny's face remained perfectly still, not even her eyelids twitching. He listened and watched her breathing. In and out. In and out. It was steady, but not deep. Could she . . .?

Harry's heart beat erratically as he leaned over her. Desperately he wanted to feel her lips against his, however cold and still, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he gently kissed her cheek, and felt a hitch in her breathing.

~*~*~

Lying here in the soft bed, isolated from the rest of the world, Ginny could drift in and out of consciousness. Away from people, she could easily let time pass without any meaning. Whenever she heard footsteps approaching, she simply steadied her breathing, closed her eyes, and felt herself slip away.

The joy of seeing Ron, knowing that she was alive and safe, had passed soon after her brother had scooped her into his arms to carry her back to Hogwarts. All joy had died when she'd laid eyes on Harry, alone, lurking behind everyone else. How could she recover from this when there was Harry?

She knew how, but it would take all of her strength and resolution to do it. And make her miserable. She had been avoiding him most of all. If she saw that look in his eyes, she would break down, confess everything, and then know the full despair of his rejection. How could he possibly love her when he knew how she had broken? She had _seen_ his death, but she had not cared, because she had wanted to die.

She was simply too weak for Harry Potter.

__

I betrayed him.

Ginny had only told Dumbledore what had happened, but only the bare details. It had been depressing to see the great wizard weak in the hospital bed, Madam Pomfrey doting over him. Yet Dumbledore had twinkled and smiled with good humor at the school nurse's tutting. When asked, Ginny had told him obediently what Voldemort's purpose had been, what methods he had used, and that no, he had not been able to complete the task. Despite her attempts to be closed, she had felt those piercing blue eyes penetrate her words, and she could no longer look Dumbledore in the eye.

He knew.

And it was of little comfort that Tom Riddle's diary was no more.

Tom Riddle was still alive, lurking within her soul, feeding off her and gloating at his triumph. She would never be without him, even if she locked him away deep inside again. But she couldn't blame him for what she was about to do. It was not Tom Riddle who had betrayed Harry.

When Ginny heard his footsteps, she quickly drew herself away, wanting to sink into the dark before he came around the curtain. _Coward_. She had faked sleep so much, had avoided Harry more than anyone else. What made her think she had the strength to do this? Her entire body was alert to his presence, and she couldn't relax and sink into the mattress. _Just breathe slowly in and out . . . in and out . . . don't move . . . in and out . . ._

"Ginny . . . I'm so sorry . . ."

__

In and out . . . in and out . . .

And then he was hovering over her, casting a darkened shadow over her, his body warm and real. She wanted desperately to reach out and cling to him, pull him against her and burrow her head in his chest. Ron's arms had been warm, tight, and safe. But it was _Harry_ she wanted.

And Harry she couldn't have.

Ginny stayed still. _In and out . . . in and out . . ._ But then she felt it . . . his lips. In her mind she saw his face in Wedgrass, and then the fierceness in his gaze as he turned away after telling her it was a mistake . . . She knew what those looks meant. _I love you, Harry. I love you so much that I have to do this. I'm too much of a coward, but it's for the best._

He knew she was awake. She could tell by the way he drew away, hesitated, his mouth hovering above, his shortened breaths warm on her face, and then he pulled back completely.

Ginny knew this was it. Yet she kept her eyes closed for another minute, unable to bear opening them and seeing Harry's face. Finally she could not wait any longer, and slowly she opened her eyes, careful not to meet his gaze.

"Harry," she croaked.

"Ginny." Harry spoke just as tightly, but she kept her eyes trained on the white linen. "Ginny," he said again, and she imagined he was licking his lips and raking a hand nervously through his hair. She could feel him gazing at her, but she refused to look up. Everything would be lost if she did.

"Ginny . . . I have to tell you something."

__

This is it. You can't let him say it. It'll be easier that way.

"I'm so sorry this happened," he burst out. "It's my fault you were captured! If I hadn't said that, you wouldn't have—"

"It would have happened sooner or later, Harry," Ginny said quietly. "Voldemort wanted me, you can't stop that. I'm just glad it happened sooner rather than later. I'm impatient."

Harry was silent for a long minute, and Ginny wondered if he would leave it at that. But then he spoke, and she gathered herself for the inevitable.

"About . . . that night," Harry said hoarsely, suddenly reaching out and grabbing her hand. Ginny hurriedly averted her face to the left, so as not to see any part of Harry. He was going to make it so hard! "That night I said . . . well, I didn't mean—I didn't—well, the thing is, what I mean is—I—"

"Harry." Ginny sat up fast, but did not look at him, and her words came fast from far off. "Let's just forget it ever happened, okay?"

"What?" 

"We're just friends. It was a mistake. You're right. I acted silly. It was nothing." _Please, please, just go! Say "okay" and leave! Don't fight me, Harry, please just don't fight me!_

~*~*~

Harry stared at Ginny's turned face, struggling for words. She looked sorry as she spoke to the basket of Chocolate Frogs beside her bed. Her body was rigid, her voice seeming to come from somewhere else, carefully casual.

"You . . . you don't . . ." Harry couldn't finish it. All he could see was the pain and hurt in her eyes that fateful night in the common room. How she trembled as he told her the worst lie ever; how he didn't feel that way about her, even though every part of his being was screaming at him to kiss her again. "You want to pretend it didn't happen?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"I don't believe you." It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Had she not said the same thing to him? Harry held his breath as Ginny's stopped. She didn't move, but stared unblinkingly away from him. "Ginny, _look at me_!" 

Ginny's eyes closed. When she opened them again, she turned her head, and Harry wasn't sure what to expect. They were dull. She pulled her hand out of his.

"You wanted to forget it the other night, remember?" She smiled wanly. "It's simple. We agree to forget about it. We're just friends."

"Right."

Harry wasn't sure he head heard right. Part of him was sure she was only saying it to punish him for his stupidity, but he couldn't understand _why_ she would do it, if she wanted him as he wanted her. It wasn't as if _she_ need to protect him from Voldemort. There couldn't be any other reason but that she didn't feel that way about him. She had once, but it was gone.

"Right," he repeated, grappling for something, anything.

"You better go, Harry," Ginny said softly. She turned away from him again.

Harry did not move. He was still trying to make sense of it all. He had come to tell her the truth, that he lied, but it had never happened. Something had happened, but it wasn't what he had expected or wanted. 

"Right," he said for the third time. It was time to go. She didn't feel that way about him. He had hurt her too much for that. 

Blinking hard, Harry stood up and turned to leave. He didn't look over his shoulder. It hurt too much. By the time he reached the infirmary desk near the door, he was running. He ran until he reached his four poster bed, where his discarded Firebolt lay. More than anything he wanted to scream or cry, but he did neither. Ron and the others would be up soon, and he couldn't let them know what had happened.

He couldn't forget about it, but Harry could pretend it had never happened.

~*~*~

She heard his footsteps quicken and echo. She heard the door slam with harsh finality. Sitting perfectly still, Ginny tried to fight back the tears, but she was too exhausted and weak. Lying to Harry had exhausted her, and she closed her eyes, hoping sleep would claim her before the crying did.

"Good-bye, Harry."

Tears spilled down her face, blurring her vision, but Ginny did not cry out, did not let her body shake with sobs. When Madam Pomfrey checked on her an hour later, she found Ginny sound asleep.

The End

__

A/N: Well, I guess I should apologize. This story was never intended to be happy. However, there will be a sequel that begins two years from when this one ended. It'll have a happy ending. 

__


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